828  Broadway 


REESE   LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY    OF   CALIFORN 


ShdfNo. 


VERSES. 


BY   H.  H., 


AUTHOR  OF   "BITS  OF  TALK"  AND   "BITS  OF  TRAVEL 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS      BROTHERS. 
1888. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

HUBERTS      BROTHERS, 

lu  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


NEW    AND   ENLARGED    EDITION. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:   JOHN  WILSON  &  SON 
CAMBRIDGE 


DEDICATION. 


HEN  children  in  the  summer  weather  play, 
Flitting  like  birds  through  sun  and  wind  and 

rain, 

From  road  to  field,  from  field  to  road  again. 
Pathetic  reckoning  of  each  mile  they  stray 
They  leave  in  flowers  forgotten  by  the  way  ; 
Forgotten,  dying,  but  not  all  in  vain, 
Since,  finding  them,  with  tender  smiles,  half  pain, 
Half  joy,  we  sigh,  "  Some  child  passed  here  to-day." 
Dear  one,  —  whose  name  I  name  not  lest  some  tongue 
Pronounce  it  roughly,  —  like  a  little  child 
Tired  out  at  noon,  I  left  my  flowers  among 
The  wayside  things.     I  know  how  thou  hast  smiled, 
And  that  the  thought  of  them  will  always  be 
One  more  sweet  secret  thing  'twixt  thee  and  me. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

A  CHRISTMAS  SYMPHONY 9 

SPINNING J4 

MY  LEGACY l(> 

LOVE'S  LARGESS *8 

FOUND  FROZEN 20 

MY  DAYS 2I 

THE  ZONE  OF  CALMS 2I 

MESSAGE 22 

MY  LIGHTHOUSES 23 

IN  TIME  OF  FAMINE 25 

THE  PRINCE  is  DEAD 26 

POPPIES  ON  THE  WHEAT 27 

A  FUNERAL  MARCH 28 

JOY 33 

Two  TRUTHS 34 

GONDOLIEDS 35 

"SPOKEN" 37 

THE  WAY  TO  SING 39 

THE  TRUE  BALLAD  OF  THE  KING'S  SINGER 41 

CENONE 45 

THE  LONELINESS  OF  SORROW 47 

A  SUNRISE 48 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  GOLD  COUNTRY 49 

EXILE 55 

MY  SHIP 55 

AT  LAST 56 

MKMOIR  OF  A  QUEEN 58 

OUR  ANGELS 59 

MAZZINI 61 

11  WHEN  THE  TIDE  COMES  IN  " 61 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Page 

THE  SINGER'S  HILLS 63 

COVERT 68 

WAITING • 69 

RENUNCIATION 70 

BURNT  SHIPS 71 

RESURGAM 72 

THE  VILLAGE  LIGHTS 79 

TRANSPLANTED 80 

BEST 82 

MORNING-GLORY 83 

OCTOBER 84 

MY  BEES 85 

THE  ABBOT  PAPHNUTIUS '  .  86 

NOON 90 

IN  THE  PASS 92 

AMREETA  WINE 94 

SOLITUDE 96 

NOT  AS  I  WILL 97 

LAND 99 

OPPORTUNITY 100 

WHEN  THE  BABY  DIED 100 

"OLD  LAMPS  FOR  NEW" 102 

FEAST 103 

Two  SUNDAYS 105 

SHOWBREAD 106 

TIDES 107 

TRIBUTE 107 

"ALMS  AT  THE  BEAUTIFUL  GATE" 108 

CORONATION 109 

MY  NEW  FRIEND in 

ASTERS  AND  GOLDEN  ROD 112 

Two  LOVES 113 

THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD 117 

LOVE'S  FULFILLING 118 

WOOED 119 

WON             120 

AKIADNE'S  FAREWELL 121 

THOUGHT 121 

MORDECAI 122 

LOCUSTS  AND  WILD  HONEY 123 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

Page 

A  MOTHER'S  FAREWELL  TO  A  VOYAGER 124 

"DROPPED  DEAD" ,25 

PRESENCE I26 

POLAR  DAYS I2_ 


HER  EYES _ 

THE  WALL-FLOWER  OF  THE  RUINS  OF  ROME I2o 

SHADOWS  OF  BIRDS ,30 

GLIMPSES 13I 

To  A.  C.  L.  B .'  J32 

SNOW-DROPS  IN  ITALY I32 

DISTANCE I33 

WHEN  THE  KINGS  COME , i34 

COMING  ACROSS „    „ I34 

THK  TEACHER „ I35 

DECORATION  DAY 136 

A  13TH-CENTURY  PARABLE 138 

FORM 141 

MY  HICKORY  FIRE 142 

REVENUES 144 

A  BURIAL  SERVICE 146 

A  PARABLE 147 

FRIENDS 148 

THE  ROYAL  BEGGAR 149 

MARCH 149 

APRIL 150 

MAY 151 

THE  SIMPLE  KING 152 

THE  SINGER'S  FRIENDS 155 

DOUBT 157 

FORGIVEN 158 

THIS  SUMMER 158 

TRYST 160 

THE  MAGIC  ARMORY 161 

LIFTED  OVER 162 

MY    HOUSE    NOT   MADK   WITH    HANDS 163 

MY  STRAWBERRY 166 

TRIUMPH 167 

RETURN  TO  THE  HILLS 168 

"DOWN  TO  SLEEP" 170 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Page 

FALLOW *7* 

LOVE'S  RICH  AND  POOR J73 

LIGHT  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN-TOPS X74 

CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  IN  ST.  PETER'S *75 

WELCOME 177 

THE  Two  COMRADES *7& 

DEMETER l81 

EXPECTANCY l82 

BELATED I8a 

To  AN  UNKNOWN  LADY l85 

A  WILD  ROSE  IN  SEPTEMBER       l87 

ARCTIC  QUEST .    .  188 

THE  SIGN  OF  THE  DAISY l89 

VINTAGE J9° 

LAST  WORDS *9* 


A    CHRISTMA 


ONY. 


CHRISTMAS  stars!  your  pregnant  silent- 
ness, 

Mute  syllabled  in  rhythmic  light, 
Leads  on  to-night, 
And  beckons,  as  three  thousand  years  ago 
It  beckoning  led.     We,  simple  shepherds,  know 

Little  we  can  confess, 
Beyond  that  we  are  poor,  and  creep 
And  wander  with  our  sheep, 

Who  love  and  follow  us.     We  hear, 
If  we  attend,  a  singing  in  the  sky; 

But  feel  no  fear, 

Knowing  that  God  is  always  nigh, 
And  none  pass  by, 
Except  His  Sons,  who  cannot  bring 
Tidings  of  evil,  since  they  sing. 
Wise  men  with  gifts  are  hurrying, 


io  VERSES. 

In  haste  to  seek  the  meaning  of  the  Star, 
In  search  of  worship  which  is  new  and  far. 
We  are  but  humble,  so  we  keep 
On   through   the   night,   contented  with  our 

sheep, 
And  with  the  stars.     Between  us  and  the  east, 

No  wall,  no  tree,  no  cloud,  lifts  bar. 
We  know  the  sunrise.     Not  one  least 
Of  all  its  tokens  can  escape 
Our  eyes  that  watch.     But  all  days  are 
As  nights,  and  nights  as  days, 
In  our  still  ways. 

We  have  no  dread  of  any  shape 

Which  darkness  can  assume  or  fill ; 
We  are  not  weary  ;  we  can  wait ; 
God's  hours  are  never  late. 
The  wise  men  say  they  will  return, 
Revealing  unto  us  the  things  they  learn. 

Mayhap  !     Meantime  the  Star  stands  still  5 
And,  having  that,  we  have  the  Sign. 
If  we  mistake,  God  is  divine  ! 


II. 

Oh,  not  alone  because  His  name  is  Christ, 
Oh,  not  alone  because  Judea  waits 
This  man-child  for  her  King,  the  Star  stands  still. 

Its  glory  reinstates, 
Beyond  humiliation's  utmost  ill, 
On  peerless  throne,  which  she  alone  can  fill, 
Each  earthly  woman.     Motherhood  is  priced 


A    CHRISTMAS  SYMPHONY.  ll 

Of  God.  at  price  no  man  may  dare 
To  lessen,  or  misunderstand. 

The  motherhood  which  came 

To  virgin  sets  in  vestal  flame, 
Fed  by  each  new-born  infant's  hand, 

With  Heaven's  air, 
With  Heaven's  food, 
The  crown  of  purest  purity  revealed, 
Virginity  eternal  signed  and  sealed 
Upon  all  motherhood  ! 


m. 

Oh,  not  alone  because  His  name  is  Christ, 
Oh,  not  alone  because  Judea  waits 
This  man-child  for  her  King,  the  Star  stands  stilL 

The  Babe  has  mates. 
Childhood  shall  be  forever  on  the  earth  ; 
And  no  man  who  has  hurt  or  lightly  priced 
So  much  as  one  sweet  hair 

On  one  sweet  infant's  head, 
But  shall  be  cursed  !     Henceforth  all  things  fulfil 
Protection  to  each  sacred  birth. 
No  spot  shall  dare 

Refuse  a  shelter.     Beasts  shall  tread 
More  lightly  ;  and  distress, 
And  poverty,  and  loneliness, 
Yea,  and  all  darkness,  shall  devise 
To  shield  each  place  wherein  an  infant  lies. 

And  wisdom  shall  come  seeking  it  with  gift, 
And  worship  it  with  myrrh  and  frankincense ; 


12  VERSES. 

And  kings  shall  tremble  if  it  lift 
Its  hand  against  a  throne. 
But  mighty  in  its  own 
Great  feebleness,  and  safe  in  God's  defence, 

No  harm  can  touch  it,  and  no  death  can  kill, 
Without  its  Father's  will ! 


IV. 

Oh,  not  alone  because  His  name  is  Christ, 

Oh,  not  alone  because  Judea  waits 
This  man-child  for  her  King,  the  Star  stands  still 
The  universe  must  utter,  and  fulfil 

The  mighty  voice  which  states, 
The  mighty  destiny  which  holds, 

Its  key-note  and  its  ultimate  design. 
Waste  places  and  the  deserts  must  perceive 
That  they  are  priced, 

No  less  than  gardens  in  the  Heart  Divine. 
Sorrow  her  sorrowing  must  leave, 
And  learn  one  sign 

With  joy.     And  Loss  and  Gain 

Must  be  no  more. 
And  all  things  which  have  gone  before, 

And  all  things  which  remain, 

And  all  of  Life,  and  all  of  Death  be  slain 

In  mighty  birth,  whose  name 
Is  called  Redemption  '  Praise  ! 

Praise  to  God  !     The  same 
To-day  and  yesterday,  and  in  all  days 

Forever !     Praise  ! 


A    CHRISTMAS  SYMPHONY.  13 


V. 

Oh,  Christmas  stars  !     Your  pregnant  silentness, 
Mute  syllabled  in  rhythmic  light, 
Fills  all  the  night. 

No  doubt,  on  all  your  golden  shores, 
Full  music  rings 
Of  Happiness 
As  sweet  as  ours. 
Midway  in  that  great  tideless  stream  which  pours, 

And  builds   its  shining  road  through    trackless 

space, 
From  you  to  us,  and  us  to  you,  must  be 

Some  mystic  place, 
Where  all  our  voices  meet,  and  melt 
Into  this  solemn  silence  which  is  felt, 

And  sense  of  sound  mysterious  brings 
Where  sound  is  not.     This  is  God's  secret.     He 
Sits  centred  in  his  myriads  of  skies, 
Where  seas  of  sound  and  seas  of  silence  rise, 
And  break  together  in  one  note  and  key, 
Divinely  limitless  in  harmony  ! 


14  VERSES. 


SPINNING. 

IKE  a  blind  spinner  in  the  sun, 

I  tread  my  days  ; 
I  know  that  all  the  threads  will  run 

Appointed  ways  ; 
I  know  each  day  will  bring  its  task, 
And,  being  blind,  no  more  I  ask. 

I  do  not  know  the  use  or  name 

Of  that  I  spin  ; 
I  only  know  that  some  one  came, 

And  laid  within 

My  hand  the  thread,  and  said,  "  Since  you 
Are  blind,  but  one  thing  you  can  do." 

Sometimes  the  threads  so  rough  and  fast 

And  tangled  fly, 
I  know  wild  storms  are  sweeping  past, 

And  fear  that  I 

Shall  fall  ;  but  dare  not  try  to  find 
A  safer  place,  since  I  am  blind. 

I  know  not  why,  but  I  am  sure 

That  tint  and  place, 
In  some  great  fabric  to  endure 

Past  time  and  race 

My  threads  will  have  ;  so  from  the  first, 
Though  blind,  I  never  felt  accurst. 


SPINNING.  15 

I  think,  perhaps,  this  trust  has  sprung 

From  one  short  word 
Said  over  me  when  I  was  young,  —       ^.    £, 

So  young,  I  heard 

It,  knowing  not  that  God's  name  signed 
My  brow,  and  sealed  me  his,  though,  blind. 

But  whether  this  be  seal  or  sign 

Within,  without, 
It  matters  not.     The  bond  divine 

I  never  doubt. 

I  know  he  set  me  here,  and  still, 
And  glad,  and  blind,  I  wait  His  will ; 

But  listen,  listen,  day  by  day, 

To  hear  their  tread 
Who  bear  the  finished  web  away, 

And  cut  the  thread, 
And  bring  God's  message  in  the  sun, 
"  Thou  poor  blind  spinner,  work  is  done." 


1 6  VERSES, 


MY   LEGACY. 

HEY  told  me  I  was  heir,  I  turned  in  haste, 

And  ran  to  seek  my  treasure, 
And  wondered  as  I  ran  how  it  was  placed, — 

If  I  should  find  a  measure 
Of  gold,  or  if  the  titles  of  fair  lands 
And  houses  would  be  laid  within  my  hands. 

I  journeyed  many  roads  ;  I  knocked  at  gates  ; 

I  spoke  to  each  wayfarer 
I  met,  and  said,  "  A  heritage  awaits 

Me.     Art  not  thou  the  bearer 
Of  news  ?     Some  message  sent  to  me  whereby 
I  learn  which  way  my  new  possessions  lie  ?  " 

Some  asked  me  in  ;  naught  lay  beyond  their  door ; 

Some  smiled  and  would  not  tarry, 
But  said  that  men  were  just  behind  who  bore 

More  gold  than  I  could  carry  ; 
And  so  the  morn,  the  noon,  the  day  were  spent, 
While  empty-handed  up  and  down  I  went. 

At  last  one  cried,  whose  face  I  could  not  see, 

As  through  the  mists  he  hasted  ; 
"  Poor  child,  what  evil  ones  have  hindered  thee, 

Till  this  whole  day  is  wasted  ? 
Hath  no  man  told  thee  that  thou  art  joint  heir 
With  one   named  Christ,  who  waits    the  goods  to 
share  ?  " 


MY  LEGACY.  17 

The  one  named  Christ  I  sought  for  many  days, 

In  many  places  vainly; 
I  heard  men  name  his  name  in  many  ways  ; 

I  saw  his  temples  plainly  ; 

But  they  who  named  him  most  gave  me  no  sign 
To  find  him  by,  or  prove  the  heirship  mine. 

And  when  at  last  I  stood  before  his  face, 

I  knew  him  by  no  token 
Save  subtle  air  of  joy  which  filled  the  place  ; 

Our  greeting  was  not  spoken  ; 
In  solemn  silence  I  received  my  share, 
Kneeling  before  my  brother  and  "joint  heir." 

My  share  !     No  deed  of  house  or  spreading  lands, 

As  I  had  dreamed  ;  no  measure 
Heaped  up  with  gold  ;  my  elder  brother's  hands 

Had  never  held  such  treasure. 
Foxes  have  holes,  and  birds  in  nests  are  fed  : 
My  brother  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head. 

My  share  !     The  right  like  him  to  know  all  pain 
Which  hearts  are  made  for  knowing; 

The  right  to  find  in  loss  the  surest  gain  ; 
To  reap  my  joy  from  sowing 

In  bitter  tears  ;  the  right  with  him  to  keep 

A  watch  by  day  and  night  with  all  who  weep. 

My  share  !     To-day  men  call  it  grief  and  death  ; 
I  see  the  joy  and  life  to-morrow  ; 


i8 

1  thank  oar  Father  with  my  every  breath, 

For  this  sweet  legacy  of  sorrow  ; 
And  through  my  tears  I  call  to  each,  "  Joint  heir 
With  Christ,  make  haste  to  ask  him  for  thy  share. " 


LOVE'S   LARGESS. 

my  heart's  door 

Love  standcth,  like  a  king  beside 
His  royal  treasury,  whose  wide 
Gates  open  swing,  and  cannot  hide 

Their  priceless  store. 


His  touch  and  hold 
Its  common  things  to  jewels  turned ; 
In  his  sweet  fires  the  dross  he  burned 
Away;  and  thus  he  won  and  earned 

.-.-i  -lit    :=  ;:li. 

So  rich  I  find 

Mysetf  in  service  of  this  king, 
The  goods  we  spare,  in  alms  I  fling ; 
And  breathless  days  too  few  hoars  bring 

Me  to  be  land, 

To  souls  whose  pain 
My  heart  can  scarcely  dare  to  greet 
With  pity,  while  my  own  complete 


LOl'FS  LAKGESS.  19 

And  blessed  joy  their  loss  must  mete 
By  my  great  gain. 

Diviner  air 

Of  beauty,  and  a  grace  more  free, 
More  soft  and  solemn  depths  I  see 
In  every  woman's  face,  since  he 

Has  called  me  fair. 

More  true  and  sure 

Each  man's  heart  seems,  more  firm  for  right ; 
Each  man  I  hold  more  strong  in  fight, 
Since  he  stands  ever  in  my  sight, 

So  brave,  so  pure. 

More  of  sun's  fire 

Than  days  can  use,  and  more  than  nights 
Can  name,  of  stars  with  rhythmic  lights, 
And  sweetest  singing  flocks,  whose  flights 

Can  never  tire,  — 

More  bloom  than  eyes 
Can  reach,  or  hands  to  grasp  may  dare,  — 
More  music  in  the  constant  air, 
Than  each  round  wave  can  hold  and  bear, 

Before  it  dies,  — 

And  more  of  life 

For  living,  than  all  death  can  kill, 
More  good  than  evil's  utmost 
Can  thwart,  and  peace  to  more  than  still 

The  fiercest  strife,  — 


20  VERSES. 

All  these  I  find 

In  service  of  this  gracious  king  ; 
From  goods  we  spare,  such  alms  I  fling ; 
And  pray  swift  days  more  hours  to  bring, 

More  bonds  to  bind. 

O  happiness  ! 

To  utter  thee,  in  vain  our  eyes 
Seek  tears  ;  and  vainly  all  speech  tries  ; 
This  thing  alone  our  king  denies 

In  Love's  largess. 


FOUND    FROZEN. 

HE  died,  as  many  travellers  have  died, 
Overtaken  on  an  Alpine  road  by  night ; 
Numbed  and  bewildered  by  the  falling  snow, 
Striving,  in  spite  of  failing  pulse,  and  limbs 
Which  faltered  and  grew  feeble  at  each  step, 
To  toil  up  the  icy  steep,  and  bear 
Patient  and  faithful  to  the  last,  the  load 
Which,  in  the  sunny  morn,  seemed  light! 

And  yet 

'T  was  in  the  place  she  called  her  home,  she  died  ; 
And  they  who  loved  her  with  the  all  of  love 
Their  wintry  natures  had  to  give,  stood  by 
And  wept  some  tears,  and  wrote  above  her  grave 
Some  common  record  which  they  thought  was  true  ; 
But  1,  who  loved  her  last  and  best,  —  /  knew. 


THE  ZONE   OF   CALMS.  21 


MY    DAYS 

VEILED  priestess,  in  a  holy  place, 
!  Day  pauseth  on  her  threshold,  beckoning 
As  infants  to  the  mother's  bosom  spring 
At  sound  of  mother's  voice,  although  her 

face 

Be  hid,  I  leap  with  sudden  joy.     No  trace 
Of  fear  I  feel  ;  I  take  her  hand  and  fling 
Her  arm  around  my  neck,  and  walk  and  cling 
Close  to  her  side.     She  chooses  road  and  pace  ; 
I  feast  along  the  way  on  her  shewbread  ; 
I  help  an  hour  or  two  on  her  great  task  ; 
Beyond  this  honoring,  no  wage  I  ask. 
Then,  ere  I  know,  sweet  night  slips  in  her  stead, 
And,  while  by  sunset  fires  I  rest  and  bask, 
Warm  to  her  faithful  breast  she  folds  my  head. 


THE   ZONE   OF   CALMS* 

S  yearning  currents  from  the  trackless  snows, 
And  silent  Polar  seas,  unceasing  sweep 
To  South,  to  North,  and  linger  not  where 

leap 

Red  fires  from  glistening  cones,  —  nor  where  the  rose 
Has  triumph  on  the  snow-fed  Paramos, 

*  The  Zone  of  Calms  is  the  space  comprised  between  the  second 
degree  north  latitude  and  the  second  degree  south. 


22  VERSES. 

In  upper  air,  —  nor  yet  where  lifts  the  deep 
Its  silver  Atolls  on  whose  bosoms  sleep 
The  purple  sponges  ;  and,  as  in  repose 
Meeting  at  last,  they  sink  upon  the  breast 
Of  that  sweet  tropic  sea,  whose  spicy  balms 
And  central  heat  have  drawn  them  to  its  arms,  — 
So  soul  seeks  soul,  unsatisfied,  represt, 
Till  in  Love's  tropic  met,  they  sink  to  rest, 
At  peace  forever,  in  the  "  Zone  of  Calms." 


MESSAGE. 

OR  one  to  bear  my  message,  I  looked  out 
In  haste,  at  noon.     The  bee  and  swallow 

passed 
Bound  south.     My  message  was  to  South. 

I  cast 

It  trusting  as  a  mariner.     No  doubt, 
Sweet  bee,  blithe  swallow,  in  my  heart  about 
Your  fellowship. 

The  stealthy  night  came  fast. 
"  O  chilly  night,"  I  said,  "  no  friend  thou  hast 
For  me,  and  morn  is  far,"  when  lo  !  a  shout 
Of  joy,  and  riding  up  as  one  rides  late, 
My  friend  fell  on  my  neck  just  in  the  gate. 
"  You  got  my  message  then  ?  " 

"  No  message,  sweet, 
Save  my  own  eyes'  desire  your  eyes  to  meet." 


MY  LIGHTHOUSES.  23 

"  You  saw  no  swallow  and  no  bee  before 
You  came  ?  " 

"  I  do  remember  past  my  door 
There  brushed  a  bird  and  bee.     O,  dearer  presage 
Than  I  had  dreamed  !     You  sent  by  them  a  mes 
sage  ?  " 


MY   LIGHTHOUSES. 

westward  window  of  a  palace  gray, 
Which  its  own  secret  still  so  safely  keeps 
That  no  man  now  its  builder's  name   can 

say, 

I  lie  and  idly  sun  myself  to-day, 
Dreaming  awake  far  more  than  one  who  sleeps, 
Serenely  glad,  although  my  gladness  weeps. 

I  look  across  the  harbor's  misty  blue, 

And  find  and  lose  that  magic  shifting  line 

Where   sky  one   shade   less    blue   meets   sea,  and 

through 

The  air  I  catch  one  flush  as  if  it  knew 
Some  secret  of  that  meeting,  which  no  sign 
Can  show  to  eyes  so  far  and  dim  as  mine. 

More  ships  than  I  can  count  build  mast  by  mast 
Gay  lattice-work  with  waving  green  and  red 
Across  my  window-panes.     The  voyage  past, 


24  VEXSES. 

They  crowd  to  anchorage  so  glad,  so  fast, 

Gliding  like  ghosts,  with  noiseless  breath  and  tread, 

Mooring  like  ghosts,  with  noiseless  iron  and  lead. 

u  O  ships  and  patient  men  who  fare  by  sea," 
I  stretch  my  hands  and  vainly  questioning  cry, 
"  Sailed  ye  from  west  ?     How  many  nights  could  ye 
Tell  by  the  lights  just  where  my  dear  and  free 
And  lovely  land  lay  sleeping  ?     Passed  ye  by 
Some  danger  safe,  because  her  fires  were  nigh  ?  " 

Ah  me  !  my  selfish  yearning  thoughts  forget 
How  darkness  but  a  hand's-breadth  from  the  coast 
With  danger  in  an  evil  league  is  set ! 
Ah  !  helpless  ships  and  men  more  helpless  yet, 
Who  trust  the  land-lights'  short  and  empty  boast ; 
The  lights  ye  bear  aloft  and  prayers  avail  ye  most. 

But  I  —  ah,  patient  men  who  fare  by  sea, 

Ye  would  but  smile  to  hear  this  empty  speech, — 

I  have  such  beacon-lights  to  burn  for  me, 

In  that  dear  west  so  lovely,  new,  and  free, 

That  evil  league  by  day,  by  night,  can  teach 

No  spell  whose  harm  my  little  bark  can  reach. 

No  towers  of  stone  uphold  those  beacon-lights  ; 
No  distance  hides  them,  and  no  storm  can  shake  ; 
In  valleys  they  light  up  the  darkest  nights, 
They  outshine  sunny  days  on  sunny  heights  ; 
They  blaze  from  every  house  where  sleep  or  wake 
My  own  who  love  me  for  my  own  poor  sake. 


IN  TIME   OF  FAMINE.  25 

Each  thought  they  think  of  me  lights  road  of  flame 

Across  the  seas  ;  no  travel  on  it  tires 

My  heart.     I  go  if  they  but  speak  my  name  ; 

From  Heaven  I  should  come  and  go  the  same, 

And  find  this  glow  forestalling  my  desires. 

My  darlings,  do  you  hear  me  ?     Trim  the  fires  ! 

GENOA,  November  30. 


IN   TIME   OF   FAMINE. 

HE   has   no  heart,"  they  said,  and  turned 

away, 
Then,  stung  so  that    I   wished  my  words 

might  be  - 
Two-edged  swords,  I  answered  low  :  — 

"  Have  ye 

Not  read  how  once  when  famine  held  fierce  sway 
In  Lydia,  and  men  died  day  by  day 
Of  hunger,  there  were  found  brave  souls  whose  glee 
Scarce  hid  their  pangs,  who  said,  *  Now  we 
Can  eat  but  once  in  two  days  ;  we  will  play 
Such  games  on  those  days  when  we  eat  no  food 
That  we  forget  our  pain.' 

"Thus  they  withstood 
Long  years  of  famine  ;  and  to  them  we  owe 
The  trumpets,  pipes,  and  balls  which  mirth  finds  good 


26  VERSES. 

To-day,  and  little  dreams  that  of  such  woe 
They  first  were  born. 

"  That  woman's  life  I  know 
Has  been  all  famine.     Mock  now  if  ye  dare, 
To  hear  her  brave  sad  laughter  in  the  air." 


THE  PRINCE    IS    DEAD. 

ROOM  in  the  palace  is  shut.     The  king 

And  the  queen  are  sitting  in  black. 

All    day  weeping    servants   will   run    and 

bring, 

But  the  heart  of  the  queen  will  lack 
All  things  ;  and  the  eyes  of  the  king  will  swim 
With  tears  which  must  not  be  shed, 
But  will  make  all  the  air  float  dark  and  dim, 
As  he  looks  at  each  gold  and  silver  toy, 
And  thinks  how  it  gladdened  the  royal  boy, 
And  dumbly  writhes  while  the  courtiers  read 
How  all  the  nations  his  sorrow  heed. 
The  Prince  is  dead. 

The  hut  has  a  door,  but  the  hinge  is  weak, 

And  to-day  the  wind  blows  it  back  ; 

There  are  two  sitting  there  who  do  not  speak ; 

They  have  begged  a  few  rags  of  black. 

They  are  hard  at  work,  though  their  eyes  are  wet 

With  tears  which  must  not  be  shed ; 


POPPIES  ON  THE    WHEAT.  27 

They  dare  not  look  where  the  cradle  is  set ; 
They  hate  the  sunbeam  which  plays  on  the  floor, 
But  will  make  the  baby  laugh  out  no  more  ; 
They  feel  as  if  they  were  turning  to  stone, 
They  wish  the  neighbors  would  leave  them  alone. 
The  Prince  is  dead. 


POPPIES    ON    THE    WHEAT. 

LONG  Ancona's  hills  the  shimmering  heat, 
A  tropic  tide  of  air  with  ebb  and  flow 
Bathes   all   the  fields  of  wheat  until   they 

glow 

Like  flashing  seas  of  green,  which  toss  and  beat 
Around  the  vines.     The  poppies  lithe  and  fleet 
Seem  running,  fiery  torchmen,  to  and  fro 
To  mark  the  shore. 

The  farmer  does  not  know 

That  they  are  there.     He  walks  with  heavy  feet, 
Counting  the  bread  and  wine  by  autumn's  gain, 
But  I, —  I  smile  to  think  that  days  remain 
Perhaps  to  me  in  which,  though  bread  be  sweet 
No  more,  and  red  wine  warm  my  blood  in  vain, 
I  shall  be  glad  remembering  how  the  fleet, 
Lithe  poppies  ran  like  torchmen  with  the  wheat. 


VERSES. 


A    FUNERAL    MARCH. 


ES,  all  is  ready  now  ;  the  door  and  gate 
Have  opened  this  last  time  for  him,  more 

wide 

Than  is  their  wont ;  no  longer  side  by  side 
With  us,  he  passes  out ;  we  follow,  meek, 
And  weeping  at  his  pomp,  which  is  not  pride, 
And  which  he  did  not  seek. 
We  cannot  speak, 

Because  we  loved  him  so  ;  we  hesitate, 
And  cling  and  linger  and  in  vain  belate 
Their  feet  who  bear  him. 

Slow,  slow,  slow, 

With  every  fibre  holding  back,  we  go ; 
And  cruel  hands,  while  we  are  near, 
And  weep  afresh  to  hear, 
Have  shut  the  door  and  shut  the  gate. 

II. 

The  air  is  full  of  shapes 

We  do  not  see,  but  feel ; 
Ghosts  which  no  death  escapes. 

No  sepulchre  can  seal ; 
Ghosts  of  forgotten  things  of  joy  and  grief; 
And  ghosts  of  things  which  never  were, 
But  promised  him  to  be  :  they  may  defer 
Their  pledges  now  ;  his  unbelief 


A   FUNERAL   MARCH.  29 

Is  justified.     Oh,  why  did  they  abide 

This  time,  these  restless  ghosts,  which  glide, 

Accompanying  him  ?     Can  they  go  in 
Unquestioned,  and  confront  him  in  the  grave, 

And  answers  win 

From  dead  lips  which  the  live  lips  never  gave  ? 
Will  they  return  across  the  churchyard  gate 
With  us,  weeping  with  us,  "  Too  late  !  too  late  !  " 

Or  are  they  dead,  as  he  is  dead  ? 

And  when  the  burial  rites  are  said, 
Will  they  lie  down,  the  resurrection  to  await  ? 

Hi. 

With  dumb,  pathetic  look  the  poor  beasts  go 
At  unaccustomed  pace  to  suit  our  woe  ; 

Uncomprehending  equally 
Or  what  a  grief  or  what  a  joy  may  be. 
House  after  house  where  life  makes  glad 
We  bear  him  past,  who  all  of  life  has  had. 
And  men's  and  women's  wistful  eyes 
Look  out  on  us  in  sorrow  and  surprise, 
For  all  men  are  of  kin  to  one  who  dies. 


IV. 

Eager  the  light  grass  bends 
To  let  us  pass,  but  springs  again  and  waves 
To  hide  our  footsteps  ;  not  a  flower  saves 

Its  blossoming,  or  sends 
One  odor  less,  as  we  go  by ; 


3°  VERSES. 

And  never  seemed  the  shining  sky 

So  full  of  birds  and  songs  before. 
Whole  tribes  of  yellow  butterflies 
Dart  mockingly  and  wheel  and  soar, 
Making  it  only  seem  the  more 
Impossible,  this  human  death  which  lies 
Silent  beneath  their  dance  who  live 
One  day  and  die.     Noiseless  and  swift, 
Winged  seeds  come  through  the  air,  and  drift 
Down  on  the  dead  man's  breast. 
They  shall  go  with  him  into  rest, 
And  in  the  resurrection  of  the  Spring 
To  his  low  grave  shall  give 
The  beauty  of  some  green  and  flowering  thing. 

v. 

The  glittering  sun  moves  slowly  overhead, 
It  seems  in  rhythmic  motion  with  our  tread, 
Confronting  us  with  its  relentless,  hot, 

Unswerving,  blinding  ray ; 

Then,  sparing  not 

One  subtle  torture,  it  makes  haste  to  lay 
A  ghastly  shadow  all  along  the  way 
Of  formless,  soundless  wheel  and  lifeless  plume, 
All  empty  shapes  in  semblance  of  our  gloom, 

Creeping  along  at  our  slow  pace, 
Not  for  one  moment  nor  in  any  place 
Forsaking  us,  nor  ceasing  to  repeat 
In  taunting  lines  the  faltering  of  our  feet ; 
Laying,  lifting,  in  a  mocking  breath, 
Mocking  shadows  of  the  shadow  of  Death. 


A   FUNERAL  MARCH. 

VI. 

But  now  comes  silent  joy,  anointing 

With  sudden,  firm,  and  tender  hand 

Our  eyes  ;  anointed  with  this  clay 

Of  burial  earth,  we  see  how  stand 

Around  us,  marshalled  under  God's  appointing, 

Such  shining  ones  as  on  no  other  day 

Descend.     We  see,  with  a  majestic  face, 

Of  love  ineffable,  One  walking  in  chief  place 

Beside  the  dead,  —  High  Priest 

Of  his  salvation,  King 
Of  his  surrender,  comrade  till  life  ceased, 

Saviour  from  suffering,  — 
O  sweet,  strong,  loving  Death  ! 
With  yearning,  pitying  breath, 
He  looks  back  from  his  dead  to  us,  and  saith, 
"  O  mine  who  love  me  not,  what  filled 
Your  hearts  with  this  strange  fear  ? 
Could  ye  but  hear 

The  new  voice  of  this  man  whom  I  have  willed 
To  set  so  free,  to  make 
Him  subject  in  my  kingdom,  for  the  sake 
Of  being  greater  king  than  I, 
Reigning  with  Christ  eternally  ! " 

VII. 

Closer  and  closer  press  the  shining  ones ; 

Clearer  and  clearer  grow  the  notes 

Of  music  from  the  heavenly  throats. 

We  see  the  gleaming  of  the  precious  stones 


32  VERSES. 

Which  set  the  Gate  of  Life.     King's  sons 
Throng  out  to  meet  the  man  we  bring ; 
We  hear  his  voice  in  entering : 

"  Oh  !  see  how  all  these  weep 

Who  come  with  me  ! 

Must  they  return? 
Oh !  send  swift  messenger  to  Christ,  and  see 

If  He  will  bid  you  keep 

Them  too  ! " 

Scarce  we  discern 

From  distant  Heaven  where  Christ  sits  and  hears, 
The  tender  whispered  voice,  in  which  he  saith, 
"  My  faithful  servant,  Death,  is  Lord  of  death : 
My  days  must  be  a  thousand  years." 

VIII. 

The  Gate  of  Life  swings  close.     All  have  gone  in  ; 
Majestic  Death,  his  freedman  following  ; 
And  all  those  ghostly  shapes,  the  next  of  kin, 
Their  deeds,  which  were  and  were  not,  rendering ; 

And  tender  Joy  and  Grief, 

Bearing  in  one  pale  sheaf 
Their  harvest ;  and  the  shining  ones  who  come 

And  go  continually. 

Alone  and  silently, 
We  take  the  road  again  that  leads  us  home. 

The  mother  has  no  more  a  son  ; 
The  wife  no  husband  ;  and  the  child 
No  father.     Yet  around  the  woman's  days 
Immortal  loverhood  lights  blaze 


JOY.  33 

Ot  deathless  fires  ;  and  never  mother  smiled 
Like  her  who  smiles  forever,  seeing  one 
Immortal  child,  for  whom  immortal  fatherhood 
Beseeches  and  receives  eternal  good. 
And  days  that  were  not  full  are  filled ; 

And  with  triumphant  breath, 

Mighty  to  cheer  and  save, 
The  voices  ring  which  once  were  stilled, 
The  pulses  beat  which  once  were  chilled, 

"  Life  is  the  victory  of  the  grave, 

Christ  is  Lord  of  the  Lord  of  Death  !  M 


JOY. 

JOY,  hast  thou  a  shape  ? 
Hast  thou  a  breath  ? 
How  fillest  thou  the  soundless  air? 
Tell  me  the  pillars  of  thy  house  ! 
What  rest  they  on  ?     Do  they  escape 

The  victory  of  Death  ? 
And  are  they  fair 

Eternally,  who  enter  in  thy  house  ? 
O  Joy,  thou  viewless  spirit,  canst  thou  dare 
To  tell  the  pillars  of  thy  house  ? 

On  adamant  of  pain, 

Before  the  earth 

Was  born  of  sea,  before  the  sea, 
Yea,  and  before  the  light,  my  house 


34  VERSES. 

Was  built.     None  know  what  loss,  what  gain, 

Attends  each  travail  birth. 
No  soul  could  be 

At  peace  when  it  had  entered  in  my  house, 
If  the  foundations  it  could  touch  or  see, 

Which  stay  the  pillars  of  my  house ! 


TWO    TRUTHS. 

ARLING,"  he  said,  "  I  never  meant 

To  hurt  you  ;  "  and  his  eyes  were  wet 
"  I  would  not  hurt  you  for  the  world  : 
Am  1  to  blame  if  I  forget  ?  " 

"  Forgive  my  selfish  tears  !  "  she  cried, 
"  Forgive  !  I  knew  that  it  was  not 

Because  you  meant  to  hurt  me,  sweet,— 
I  knew  it  was  that  you  forgot !  " 

But  all  the  same,  deep  in  her  heart 

Rankled  this  thought,  and  rankles  yet,— 
"When  love  is  at  its  best,  one  loves 
So  much  that  he  cannot  forget." 


GONDOLIEDS. 


GONDOLIEDS. 


YESTERDAY. 

1EAR  yesterday,  glide  not  so  fast; 

O,  let  me  cling 

To  thy  white  garments  floating  past; 
Even  to  shadows  which  they  cast 
I  cling,  I  cling. 
Show  me  thy  face 

Just  once,  once  more  ;  a  single  night 
Cannot  have  brought  a  loss,  a  blight 
Upon  its  grace. 

Nor  are  they  dead  whom  thou  dost  bear, 

Robed  for  the  grave. 
See  what  a  smile  their  red  lips  wear  ; 
To  lay  them  living  wilt  thou  dare 

Into  a  grave  ? 

I  know,  I  know, 
I  left  thee  first ;  now  I  repent ; 
I  listen  now  ;  I  never  meant 

To  have  thee  go. 

Just  once,  once  more,  tell  me  the  word 

Thou  hadst  for  me  ! 
Alas  !  although  my  heart  was  stirred, 
I  never  fully  knew  or  heard 

It  was  for  me. 

O  yesterday, 


6  VERSES. 

My  yesierday,  thy  sorest  pain, 
Were  joy  couldst  thou  but  come  again,  — 
Sweet  yesterday. 

VENICE,  May  26. 


II. 

TO-MORROW. 

ALL  red  with  joy  the  waiting  west, 

O  little  swallow, 

Couldst  thou  tell  me  which  road  is  best? 
Cleaving  high  air  with  thy  soft  breast 

For  keel,  O  swallow, 

Thou  must  o'erlook 
My  seas  and  know  if  I  mistake  ; 
I  would  not  the  same  harbor  make 

Which  yesterday  forsook. 

I  hear  the  swift  blades  dip  and  plash 

Of  unseen  rowers  ; 
On  unknown  land  the  waters  dash ; 
Who  knows  how  it  be  wise  or  rash 

To  meet  the  rowers  ! 

Premi  !  Premi  ! 

Venetians  boatmen  lean  and  cry ; 
With  voiceless  lips,  I  drift  and  lie 

Upon  the  twilight  sea. 

The  swallow  sleeps.     Her  last  low  call 
Had  sound  of  warning. 


"SPOKEN." 

Sweet  little  one,  whate'er  befall, 
Thou  wilt  not  know  that  it  was  all, 

In  vain  thy  warning. 

I  may  not  borrow 
A  hope,  a  help.     I  close  my  eyes  ; 
Cold  wind  blows  from  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 
Kneeling  I  wait  to-morrow. 


37 


VENICE,  May  30. 


"SPOKEN. 


the  hours  by  bells  and  lights 

We  rose  and  sank  ; 

waves  on  royal  banquet-heights 

Tossed  off  and  drank 
Their  jewels  made  of  sun  and  moon, 
White  pearls  at  midnight,  gold  at  noon. 

Counting  the  hours  by  bells  and  lights, 

We  sailed  and  sailed  ; 
Six  lonely  days,  six  lonely  nights, 

No  ship  we  hailed. 

Till  all  the  sea  seemed  bound  in  spell, 
And  silence  sounded  like  a  knell. 

At  last,  just  when  by  bells  and  lights 

Of  seventh  day 
The  dawn  grew  clear,  in  sudden  flights 

White  sails  away 


38  VERSES. 

To  east,  like  birds,  went  spreading  slow 
Their  wings  which  reddened  in  the  glow. 


No  more  we  count  the  bells  and  lights ; 

We  laugh  for  joy. 
The  trumpets  with  their  brazen  mights 

Call,  "  Ship  ahoy  !  " 

We  hold  each  other's  hands  ;  our  cheeks 
Are  wet  with  tears  ;  but  no  one  speaks. 

In  instant  comes  the  sun  and  lights 

The  ship  with  fire  ; 
Each  mast  creeps  up  to  dizzy  heights, 

A  blazing  spire  ; 

One  faint  "Ahoy,"  then  all  in  vain 
We  look  ;  we  are  alone  again. 

I  have  forgotten  bells  and  lights, 

And  waves  which  drank 
Their  jewels  up  ;  those  days  and  nights 

Which  rose  and  sank 
Have  turned  like  other  pasts,  and  fled, 
And  carried  with  them  all  their  dead. 

But  every  day  that  fire  ship  lights 

My  distant  blue, 
And  every  day  glad  wonder  smites 

My  heart  anew, 

How  in  that  instant  each  could  heed 
And  hear  the  other's  swift  God-speed. 


THE    WAY  TO  SING.  39 

Counting  by  hours  thy  clays  and  nights 
In  weariness, 

0  patient  soul,  on  godlike  heights 

Of  loneliness, 

1  passed  thee  by  ;  tears  filled  our  eyes ; 

The  loud  winds  mocked  and  drowned  our  cries. 

The  hours  go  by,  with  bells  and  lights ; 

We  sail,  we  drift  ; 
Our  souls  in  changing  tasks  and  rites, 

Find  work  and  shrift. 
But  this  I  pray,  and  praying  know 
Till  faith  almost  to  joy  can  grow 

That  hour  by  hour  the  bells,  the  lights 

Of  sound  of  flame 
Weave  spell  which  ceaselessly  recites 

To  thee  a  name, 

And  smiles  which  thou  canst  not  forget 
For  thee  are  suns  which  never  set. 


THE   WAY   TO  SING. 

HE  birds  must  know.     Who  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  as  they  ; 

The  common  air  has  generous  wings 
Songs  make  their  way. 


4o  VERSES. 

No  messenger  to  run  before, 

Devising  plan  ; 
No  mention  of  the  place  or  hour 

To  any  man  ; 
No  waiting  till  some  sound  betrays 

A  listening  ear  ; 
No  different  voice,  no  new  delays, 

If  steps  draw  near. 

14  What  bird  is  that  ?     Its  song  is  good." 

And  eager  eyes 
Go  peering  through  the  dusky  wood, 

In  glad  surprise. 
Then  late  at  night,  when  by  his  fire 

The  traveller  sits, 
Watching  the  flame  grow  brighter,  higher, 

The  sweet  song  flits 
By  snatches  through  his  weary  brain 

To  help  him  rest ; 
When  next  he  goes  that  road  again, 

An  empty  nest 
On  leafless  bough  will  make  him  sigh, 

"  Ah  me  !  last  spring 
Just  here  I  heard,  in  passing  by, 

That  rare  bird  sing  !  " 

But  while  he  sighs,  remembering 

How  sweet  the  song, 
The  little  bird  on  tireless  wing, 

Is  borne  along 


TRL'E  BALLAD  OF  TtlE  KING'S  SINGER.    4 1 

In  other  air.  and  other  men 

With  weary  feet, 
On  other  roads,  the  simple  strain 

Are  finding  sweet. 
The  birds  must  know.     Who  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  as  they ; 
The  common  air  has  generous  wings, 

Songs  make  their  way. 


THE   TRUE   BALLAD   OF    THE    KING'S 
SINGER. 


HE  king  rode  fast,  the  king  rode  well, 
The  royal  hunt  went  loud  and  gay, 
A  thousand  bleeding  chamois  fell 
For  royal  sport  that  day. 


When  sunset  turned  the  hills  all  red, 
The  royal  hunt  went  still  and  slow ; 

The  king's  great  horse  with  weary  tread 
Plunged  ankle-deep  in  snow. 

Sudden  a  strain  of  music  sweet, 

Unearthly  sweet,  came  through  the  wood ; 
Up  sprang  the  king,  and  on  both  feet 

Straight  in  his  saddle  stood. 


42  VERSES. 

"  Now,  by  our  lady,  be  it  bird, 

Or  be  it  man  or  elf  who  plays, 
Never  before  my  ears  have  heard 

A  music  fit  for  praise  !  " 

Sullen  and  tired,  the  royal  hunt 

Followed  the  king,  who  tracked  the  song, 

Unthinking,  as  is  royal  wont, 
How  hard  the  way  and  long. 

Stretched  on  a  rock  the  shepherd  lay 

And  dreamed  and  piped,  and  dreamed  and  sang, 
And  careless  heard  the  shout  and  bay 

With  which  the  echoes  rang. 

**  Up,  man  !  the  king  !  "  the  hunters  cried. 

He  slowly  stood,  and,  wondering, 
Turned  honest  eyes  from  side  to  side : 

To  him,  each  looked  like  king. 

Strange  shyness  seized  the  king's  bold  tongue  ; 

He  saw  how  easy  to  displease 
This  savage  man  who  stood  among 

His  courtiers,  so  at  ease. 

But  kings  have  silver  speech  to  use 
When  on  their  pleasure  they  are  bent ; 

The  simple  shepherd  could  not  choose; 
Like  one  in  dream  he  went. 

O  hear  !  O  hear  !     The  ringing  sound 
Of  twenty  trumpets  swept  the  street, 


TRUE  BALLAD  OF  THE  A'/.VG'S  SJNGER.    43 

The  king  a  minstrel  now  has  found, 
For  royal  music  meet. 

With  cloth  of  gold,  and  cloth  of  red, 
And  woman's  eyes  the  place  is  bright. 

"  Now,  shepherd,  sing,"  the  king  has  said, 
**  The  song  you  sang  last  night !  " 

One  faint  sound  stirs  the  perfumed  air, 
The  courtiers  scornfully  look  down  ; 

The  shepherd  kneels  in  dumb  despair, 
Seeing  the  king's  dark  frown. 

The  king  is  just ;  the  king  will  wait. 

"  Ho,  guards  !  let  him  be  gently  led, 
Let  him  grow  used  to  royal  state,  — 

To  being  housed  and  fed." 

All  night  the  king  unquiet  lay, 

Racked  by  his  dream's  presentiment; 

Then  rose  in  haste  at  break  of  day, 
And  for  the  shepherd  sent. 

"  Ho  now,  thou  beast,  thou  savage  man, 
How  sound  thou  sleepest,  not  to  hear ! " 

They  jeering  laughed,  but  soon  began 
To  louder  call  in  fear. 

They  wrenched  the  bolts  ;  unrumpled  stood 

The  princely  bed  all  silken  fine, 
Untouched  the  plates  of  royal  food, 

The  flask  of  royal  wine  ! 


44  VERSES. 

The  costly  robes  strewn  on  the  floor, 

The  chamber  empty,  ghastly  still ; 
The  guards  stood  trembling  at  the  door, 

And  dared  not  cross  the  sill. 

All  night  the  sentinels  their  round 

Had  kept.     No  man  could  pass  that  way. 

The  window  dizzy  high  from  ground ; 
Below,  the  deep  moat  lay. 

They  crossed  themselves.     "  The  foul  fiend  lurks 
In  this,"  they  said.     They  did  not  know 

The  miracles  sweet  Freedom  works, 
To  let  her  children  go. 

It  was  the  fiend  himself  who  took 
That  shepherd's  shape  to  pipe  and  sing ; 

And  every  man  with  terror  shook, 
For  who  would  tell  the  king ! 

The  heads  of  men  all  innocent 

Rolled  in  the  dust  that  day; 
And  east  and  west  the  bloodhounds  went, 

Baying  their  dreadful  bay  ; 

Safe  on  a  snow  too  far,  too  high, 

For  scent  of  dogs  or  feet  of  men, 
The  shepherd  watched  the  clouds  sail  by, 

And  dreamed  and  sang  again  ; 

And  crossed  himself,  and  knelt  and  cried, 
And  kissed  the  holy  Edelweiss, 


(EXONE.  45 

Believing  that  the  fiends  had  tried 
To  buy  him  with  a  price. 

The  king  rides  fast,  the  king  rides  well ; 

The  summer  hunts  go  loud  and  gay ; 
The  courtiers,  who  this  tale  can  tell, 

Are  getting  old  and  gray. 

But  still  they  say  it  was  a  fiend 
That  took  a  shepherd's  shape  to  sing, 

For  still  the  king's  heart  is  not  weaned 
To  care  for  other  thing. 

Great  minstrels  come  from  far  and  near, 
He  will  not  let  them  sing  or  play, 

But  waits  and  listens  still  to  hear 
The  song  he  heard  that  day. 


(ENONE. 

WOE  to  thee,  CEnone  !  stricken  blind 
And  poisoned  by  a  darkness  and  a  pain, 
O,  woe  to  thee,  CEnone  !  who  couldst  find 
No  love  when  love  lay  dying,  doubly  slain 
Slain  thus  by  thee,  CEnone  ! 

O,  what  stain, 

Of  red  like  this  on  hands  of  love  was  seen 
Ever  before  or  since,  since  love  has  been  ! 


46  VERSES. 

O,  woe  to  thee,  CEnone  !     Hadst  thou  said, 

"  Sweet  love,  lost  love,  I  know  now  why  I  live 

And  could  not  die,  the  days  I  wished  me  dead; 

O  love,  all  strength  of  life  and  joy  I  give 

Thee  back  !     Ah  me,  that  I  have  dared  to  strive 

With  fates  that  bore  me  to  this  one  sure  bliss, 

Thou  couldst  not  rob  me,  O  lost  love,  of  this  ?  "  — 

Hadst  thou  said  this,  CEnone,  though  he  went 
Bounding  with  life,  thy  life,  and  left  thee  there 
Dying  and  glad,  such  sudden  pain  had  rent 
His  heart,  that  even  beating  in  the  fair 
White  arms  of  Helen,  hid  in  her  sweet  hair, 
It  had  made  always  moan,  in  strange  unrest, 
"  CEnone's  love  was  greater  love,  was  best." 

["  Paris,  the  son  of  Priam,  was  wounded  by  one  of  the  poisoned  arrows 
of  Hercules  that  Philoctetes  bore  to  the  siege  of  Troy,  whereupon  he 
had  himself  borne  up  into  Ida,  that  he  might  see  the  nymph  CEnone, 
whom  he  once  had  loved,  because  she  who  knew  many  secret  things 
alone  could  heal  him  ;  but  when  he  had  seen  her  and  spoken  with  her, 
she  would  deal  with  the  matter  in  no  wise,  whereupon  Paris  died  ol 
that  hurt."] 


THE  LOVELINESS  OF  SORROW.^        47 

/\^- 

l  ' 


THE   LONELINESS   OF   SORROW- 

RIENDS  crowd  around  and  take  it  by  the 

hand, 

Intruding  gently  on  its  loneliness, 
Striving  with  word  of  love  and  sweet  caress 
To  draw  it  into  light  and  air.     Like  band 
Of  brothers,  all  men  gather  close,  and  stand 
About  it,  making  half  its  grief  their  own, 
Leaving  it  never  silent  nor  alone. 

But  through  all  crowds  of  strangers  and  of  friends, 
Among  all  voices  of  good-will  and  cheer, 
Walks  Sorrow,  silently,  and  does  not  hear. 
Like  hermit  whom  mere  loneliness  defends  ; 
Like  one  born  deaf,  to  whose  still  ear  sound  sends 
No  word  of  message  ;  and  like  one  born  dumb, 
From  whose  sealed  lips  complaint  can  never  come, 

Majestic  in  its  patience,  and  more  sweet 
Thin  all  things  else  that  can  of  souls  have  birth, 
Bearing  the  one  redemption  of  this  earth 
Which  God's  eternities  fulfil,  complete, 
Down  to  its  grave,  with  steadfast,  tireless  feet 
It  goes  uncomforted,  serene,  alone, 
And  leaves  not  even  name  on  any  stone. 


48  VERSES. 


A   SUNRISE. 

E  slept  on  a  bed  of  roses, 

I  know  — 
I,  who  am  least  of  his  subjects.     The 

thing 
Chanced  thus. 

Before  it  was  time  for  the  king 
To  rise  — just  before—  I  saw  a  red  glow 
Stream  out  of  his  door,  such  as  roses  show 
At  heart,  such  a  glow  as  no  fire  could  bring. 
The  solid  gold  of  the  whole  eastern  wing 
Of  the  palace  seemed  pale. 

Then,  floating  low 

Across  the  threshold,  great  petals  of  pink 
Fell  from  the  feet  of  the  king,  as  he  stood 
There,  smiling,  majestic,  serene,  and  good. 
But  was  it  a  bed  of  roses  ? 

I  think 

Of  another  monarch  who,  on  the  brink 
Of  death  by  fire,  smiled,  as  a  monarch  should 


BALLAD   OF   THE    GOLD   COUNTRY.        49 


A   BALLAD   OF   THE   GOLD   COUNTRY. 


EEP  in  the  hill  the  gold  sand  burned  ; 

The  brook  ran  yellow  with  its  gleams  j 
Close  by,  the  seekers  slept,  and  turned 

And  tossed  in  restless  dreams. 


At  dawn  they  waked.     In  friendly  cheer 
Their  dreams  they  told,  by  one,  by  one ; 

And  each  man  laughed  the  dreams  to  hear, 
But  sighed  when  they  were  done. 

Visions  of  golden  birds  that  flew, 
Oi  golden  cloth  piled  fold  on  fold, 

O*  rain  which  shone,  and  filtered  through 
The  air  in  showers  of  gold  ; 

Visions  of  golden  bells  that  rang, 
Of  golden  chariots  that  rolled, 

Visions  of  girls  that  danced  and  sang, 
With  hair  and  robes  of  gold  ; 

Visions  of  golden  stairs  that  led 

Down  golden  shafts  of  depths  untold, 

Visions  of  golden  skies  that  shed 
Gold  light  on  seas  of  gold. 


VERSES. 

"  Comrades,  your  dreams  have  many  shapes," 
Said  one  who,  thoughtful,  sat  apart : 

"  But  I  six  nights  have  dreamed  of  grapes, 
One  dream  which  fills  my  heart. 

"  A  woman  meets  me,  crowned  with  vine  ; 

Great  purple  clusters  fill  her  hands  ; 
Her  eyes  divinely  smile  and  shine, 

As  beckoning  she  stands. 

"  I  follow  her  a  single  pace  ; 

She  vanishes,  like  light  or  sound, 
And  leaves  me  in  a  vine-walled  place, 

Where  grapes  pile  all  the  ground." 

The  comrades  laughed  :  "  We  know  thee  by 
This  fevered,  drunken  dream  of  thine." 

"  Ha,  ha,"  cried  he,  "  never  have  I 
So  much  as  tasted  wine  ! 

"  Now,  follow  ye  your  luring  shapes 

Of  gold  that  clinks  and  gold  that  shines; 

I  shall  await  my  maid  of  grapes, 
And  plant  her  trees  and  vines." 

All  through  the  hills  the  gold  sand  burned ; 

All  through  the  lands  ran  yellow  streams  ; 
To  right,  to  left,  the  seekers  turned, 

Led  by  the  golden  gleams. 


BALLAD   OF   THE    GOLD   COUNTRY. 

The  ruddy  hills  were  gulfed  and  strained ; 

The  rocky  fields  were  torn  and  trenched ; 
The  yellow  streams  were  drained  and  drained, 

Until  their  sources  quenched. 

The  gold  came  fast ;  the  gold  came  free  : 
The  seekers  shouted  as  they  ran, 

"  Now  let  us  turn  aside,  and  see 
How  fares  that  husbandman  !  " 

"  Ho  here !  ho  there  !  good  man,"  they  cried, 
And  tossed  gold  nuggets  at  his  feet ; 

"Serve  us  with  wine  !     Where  is  thy  bride 
That  told  thee  tales  so  sweet  ?  " 

"  No  wine  as  yet,  my  friends,  to  sell ; 

No  bride  to  show,"  he  smiling  said  : 
"  But  here  is  water  from  my  well ; 

And  here  is  wheaten  bread." 

"  Is  this  thy  tale  ?  "  they  jeering  cried ; 

"  Who  was  it  followed  luring  shapes  ? 
And  who  has  won  ?     It  seems  she  lied, 

Thy  maid  of  purple  grapes  !  " 

"  When  years  have  counted  up  to  ten," 
He  answered  gayly,  smiling  still, 

"  Come  back  once  more,  my  merry  men, 
And  you  shall  have  your  fill 


52  VERSES. 

"  Of  purple  grapes  and  sparkling  wine, 
And  figs,  and  nectarines  like  flames, 

And  sweeter  eyes  than  maids'  shall  shine 
In  welcome  at  your  names." 

In  scorn  they  heard  ;  to  scorn  they  laughed 
The  water  and  the  wheaten  bread  ; 

"  We'll  wait  until  a  better  draught 
For  thy  bride's  health,"  they  said. 


The  years  ran  fast.     The  seekers  went 
All  up,  all  down  the  golden  lands : 

The  streams  grew  pale  ;  the  hills  were  spent; 
Slow  ran  the  golden  sands. 

And  men  were  beggars  in  a  day, 
For  swift  to  come  was  swift  to  go  ; 

What  chance  had  got,  chance  flung  away 
On  one  more  chance's  throw. 

And  bleached  and  seamed  and  riven  plains, 
And  tossed  and  tortured  rocks  like  ghosts, 

And  blackened  lines  and  charred  remains, 
And  crumbling  chimney-posts, 

For  leagues  their  ghastly  records  spread 
Of  youth,  and  years,  and  fortunes  gone, 

Like  graveyards  whose  sad  living  dead 
Had  hopeless  journeyed  on. 


BALLAD   OF   THE    GOLD   COUNTRY.        53 

The  years  had  counted  up  to  ten  : 
One  night,  as  it  grew  chill  and  late, 

The  husbandman  marked  beggar-men 
Who  leaned  upon  his  gate. 

"  Ho  here  !  good  men,"  he  eager  cried, 
Before  the  wayfarers  could  speak  ; 

"This  is  my  vineyard.     Far  and  wide, 
For  laborers  I  seek. 


"  This  year  has  doubled  on  last  year; 

The  fruit  breaks  down  my  vines  and  trees  ; 
Tarry  and  help,  till  wine  runs  clear, 

And  ask  what  price  you  please." 

Purple  and  red,  to  left,  to  right, 

For  miles  the  gorgeous  vintage  blazed; 

And  all  day  long  and  into  night 
The  vintage  song  was  raised. 

And  wine  ran  free  all  thirst  beyond, 
And  no  hand  stinted  bread  or  meat ; 

And  maids  were  gay,  and  men  were  fond. 
And  hours  were  swift  and  sweet. 

The  beggar-men  they  worked  with  will ; 

Their  hands  were  thin  and  lithe  and  strong 
Each  day  they  ate  good  two  days'  fill, 

They  had  been  starved  so  long. 


VERSES. 

The  vintage  drew  to  end.  New  wine 
From  thousand  casks  was  dripping  slow, 

And  bare  and  yellow  fields  gave  sign 
For  vintagers  to  go. 

The  beggar-men  received  their  pay, 

Bright  yellow  gold,  —  twice  their  demand  ; 

The  master,  as  they  turned  away, 
Held  out  his  brawny  hand, 

And  said  :  "  Good  men,  this  time  next  year 

My  vintage  will  be  bigger  still ; 
Come  back,  if  chance  should  bring  you  near, 

And  it  should  suit  your  will." 

The  beggars  nodded.  But  at  night 
They  said  :  "  No  more  we  go  that  way: 

He  did  not  know  us  then  ;  he  might 
Upon  another  day  !  " 


MY  SHIP, 


55 


EXILE. 

EN  may  be  banished,  and  a  blood-price 

set, 
Tracking   their  helpless   steps  in  every 

land, 

Arming  against  their  life  each  base  man's  hand, 
But  light  and  air  and  memory  are  met 
In  holy  league,  to  help  and  save  them  yet, 
From  all  of  death  which  souls  cannot  withstand: 
The  subtlest  cruelty  which  ever  planned, 
Can  never  make  them  pray  they  may  forget 
Because  they  are  forgotten. 

They  may  go, 

Driven  of  earth  and  tossed  by  salt  sea's  foam, 
Till  every  breath  one  slow  dull  pain  become ; 
It  is  not  exile.     Only  exiles  know : 
Nor  distance  makes,  nor  nearness  saves  the  blow; 
The  exile  had  of  exile  died  at  home. 


MY   SHIP. 

brothers'  ships  sail  out  by  night,  by  day; 
My  brothers'  feet  run  merry  on  the  shore, 
They  need  not  weep,  believing  they  no 

more 
Shall  find  the  loved  ones  who  have  sailed  away, 


5  6  VERSES. 

So  frequent  go  their  ships,  to-morrow  may 
See  one  return  for  them. 

The  ship  that  bore 

My  loved  from  me  1!  ,s  where  she  lay  before  ; 
My  heart  grows  sick  v;ithin  me  as  I  pray 
The  silent  skipper,  morn  by  morn,  if  he 
Will  sail  before  the  night 

With  patient  tread 

I  bear  him  all  my  goods.     I  cannot  see 
What  more  is  left  that  could  be  stripped  from  me, 
But  still  the  silent  skipper  shakes  his  head  : 
Ah  me  !  I  think  I  never  shall  be  dead  ! 


AT    LAST. 

THE  years  I  lost  before  I  knew  you, 

Love  ! 
O,  the  hills  I  climbed  and  came  not  to  you, 

Love  ! 
Ah  !  who  shall  render  unto  us  to  make 

Us  glad, 

The  things  which  for  "~;d  of  each  other's  sake 
We  might  have  had  ? 

If  you  and  I  had  sat  and  played  together, 

Love, 
Two  speechless  babies  in  the  summer  weather, 

Love, 


AT  LAST.  57 

By  one  sweet  brook  which,  though  it  dried  up  long 

Ago, 
Still  makes  for  me  to-day  a  sweeter  song 

Than  all  I  know,  — 

If  hand  in  hand  through  the  mysterious  gateway, 

Love, 
Of  womanhood,  we  had  first  looked  and  straightway, 

Love, 
Had  whispered  to  each  other  softly,  ere 

It  yet 
Was  dawn,  what  now  in  noonday  heat  and  fear 

We  both  forget,  — 

If  all  of  this  had  given  its  completeness, 

Love, 
To  every  hour  would  it  be  added  sweetness, 

Love  ? 
Could  I  know  sooner  whether  it  were  well 

Or  ill 
With  thee  ?  One  wish  could  I  more  surely  tell, 

More  swift  fulfil  ? 

Ah  !  vainly  thus  I  sit  and  dream  and  ponder, 

Love, 
Losing  the  precious  present  while  I  wonder, 

Love, 
About  the  days  in  which  you  grew  and  came 

To  be 
So  beautiful,  and  did  not  know  the  name 

Or  sight  of  me. 


VERSES. 

But  all  lost  things  are  in  the  angels'  keeping. 

Love  ; 
No  past  is  dead  for  us,  but  only  sleeping, 

Love  ; 
The  years  of  Heaven  will  all  earth's  little  pain 

Make  good, 
Together  there  we  can  begin  again 

In  babyhood. 


MEMOIR   OF   A   QUEEN. 

ER  name,  before  she  was  a  queen,  boots 

not. 
When  she  was  crowned,  her  kingdom  said, 

"  The  Queen  !  " 
And,  after  that,  all  other  names  too  mean 
By  far  had  seemed.     Perhaps  all  were  forgot, 
Save  "  Queen,  sweet  queen." 

Such  pitiable  lot 

As  till  her  birth  her  kingdom  had,  was  seen 
Never  in  all  fair  lands,  so  torn  between 
False  grasping  powers,  that  toiled  and  fought,  but  got 
No  peace. 

All  curious  search  is  wholly  vain 
For  written  page  or  stone  whereon  occurs 
A  mention  of  the  kingdom  which  obeyed 
This  sweet  queen's  rule.     But  centuries  have  laid 
No  dead  queen  down  in  royal  sepulchres 
Whose  reign  was  greater  or  more  blest  than  hers. 


OUR  ANGELS.  59 


OUR    ANGELS. 

H  !  not  with  any  sound  they  come,  or  sign, 
Which  fleshly  ear  or  eye  can  recognize ; 
No  curiosity  can  compass  or  surprise 
The  secret  of  that  intercourse  divine 
Which  God  permits,  ordains,  across  the  line, 
The  changeless  line  which  bars 
Our  earth  from  other  stars. 

But  they  do  come  and  go  continually, 

Our  blessed  angels,  no  less  ours  than  His  ; 
The  blessed  angels  whom  we  think  we  miss  ; 
Whose  empty  graves  we  weep  to  name  or  see, 
And  vainly  watch,  as  once  in  Galilee 
One,  weeping,  watched  in  vain, 
Where  her  lost  Christ  had  lain. 

Whenever  in  some  bitter  grief  we  find, 
All  unawares,  a  deep,  mysterious  sense 
Of  hidden  comfort  come,  we  know  not  whence  ; 
When  suddenly  we  see,  where  we  were  blind  ; 
Where  we  had  struggled,  are  content,  resigned ; 
Are  strong  where  we  were  weak,  — 
And  no  more  strive  nor  seek, — 

Then  we  may  know  that  from  the  far  glad  skies, 
To  note  our  need,  the  watchful  God  has  bent, 
And  for  our  instant  help  has  called  and  sent, 


60  VERSES. 

Of  all  our  loving  angels,  the  most  wise 
And  tender  one,  to  point  to  us  where  lies 

The  path  that  will  be  best, 

The  path  of  peace  and  rest. 

And  when  we  find  on  every  sky  and  field 
A  sudden,  new,  and  mystic  light,  which  fills 
Our  every  sense  with  speechless  joy,  and  thrills 
Us,  till  we  yield  ourselves  as  children  yield 
Themselves  and  watch  the  spells  magicians  wield, 
With  tireless,  sweet  surprise, 
And  rapture  in  their  eyes,  — 

Then  we  may  know  our  little  ones  have  run 
Away  for  just  one  moment,  from  their  play 
In  heavenly  gardens,  and  in  their  old  way 
Are  walking  by  our  side,  and  one  by  one, 
At  all  sweet  things  beneath  the  earthly  sun, 
Are  pointing  joyfully, 
And  calling  us  to  see  ! 

Ah  !  when  we  learn  the  spirit  sound  and  sign, 
And  instantly  our  angels  recognize, 
No  weariness  can  tire,  no  pain  surprise 
Our  souls  rapt  in  the  intercourse  divine, 
Which  God  permits,  ordains,  across  the  line, 
The  changeless  line  which  bars 
Our  earth  from  other  stars. 


WHEN  THE    TIDE   COMES 


61 


MAZZINI. 


HAT  he  is  dead  the  sons  of  kings  are  glad ; 

And  in  their  beds  the  tyrants  sounder  sleep. 

Now  he  is  dead  his  martyrdom  will  reap 

Late  harvest  of  the  palms  it  should  have  had 
In  life.     Too  late  the  tardy  lands  are  sad. 
His  unclaimed  crown  in  secret  they  will  keep 
For  ages,  while  in  chains  they  vainly  weep, 
And  vainly  grope  to  find  the  roads  he  bade 
Them  take. 

O  glorious  soul !  there  is  no  dearth 
Of  worlds.     There  must  be  many  better  worth 
Thy  presence  and  thy  leadership  than  this. 
No  doubt,  on  some  great  sun  to-day,  thy  birth 
Is  for  a  race,  the  dawn  of  Freedom's  bliss, 
Which  but  for  thee  it  might  for  ages  miss. 


"WHEN    THE    TIDE    COMES    IN." 


HEN  the  tide  comes  in, 
At  once  the  shore  and  sea  begin 
Together  to  be  glad. 
What  the  tide  has  brought 
No  man  has  asked,  no  man  has  sought : 


62  VERSES. 

What  other  tides  have  had 
The  deep  sand  hides  away  ; 
The  last  bit  of  the  wrecks  they  wrought 
Was  burned  up  yesterday. 

When  the  tide  goes  out, 
The  shore  looks  dark  and  sad  with  doubt. 

The  landmarks  are  all  lost. 

For  the  tide  to  turn 
Men  patient  wait,  men  restless  yearn. 

Sweet  channels  they  have  crossed, 

In  boats  that  rocked  with  glee, 
Stretch  now  bare  stony  roads  that  burn 

And  lead  away  from  sea. 

When  the  tide  comes  in 
In  hearts,  at  once  the  hearts  begin 

Together  to  be  glad. 

What  the  tide  has  brought 
They  do  not  care,  they  have  not  sought. 

All  joy  they  ever  had 

The  new  joy  multiplies  ; 
All  pain  by  which  it  may  be  bought 

Seems  paltry  sacrifice. 

When  the  tide  goes  out, 
The  hearts  are  wrung  with  fear  and  doubt; 

All  trace  of  joy  seems  lost. 

Will  the  tide  return  ? 
In  restless  questioning  they  yearn, 


THE  SINGER'S  HILLS.  63 

With  hands  unclasped,  uncrossed, 
They  weep,  on  separate  ways. 

Ah  !  darling,  shall  we  ever  learn 
Love's  tidal  hours  and  days  ? 


THE    SINGER'S    HILLS. 


E  dwelt  where  level  lands  lay  low  and  drear, 
Long  stretches  of  waste  meadow  pale  and 

sere, 

With  dull  seas  languid  tiding  up  and  down, 
Turning  the  lifeless  sands  from  white  to  brown, — 
Wide  barren  fields  for  miles  and  miles,  until 
The  pale  horizon  walled  them  in,  and  still 
No  lifted  peak,  no  slope,  not  even  mound 
To  raise  and  cheer  the  weary  eye  was  found. 
From  boyhood  up  and  down  these  dismal  lands, 
And  pacing  to  and  fro  the  barren  sands, 
And  always  gazing,  gazing  seaward,  went 
The  Singer.     Daily  with  the  sad  winds  blent 
His  yearning  voice. 

"  There  must  be  hills,"  he  said, 
"  I  know  they  stand  at  sunset  rosy  red, 
And  purple  in  the  dewy  shadowed  morn  ; 
Great  forest  trees  like  babes  are  rocked  and  borne 
Upon  their  breasts,  and  flowers  like  jewels  shine 
Around  their  feet,  and  gold  and  silver  line 


64 

Their  hidden  chambers,  and  great  cities  rise 
Stately  where  their  protecting  shadow  lies, 
And  men  grow  brave  and  women  are  more  fair 
'Neath  higher  skies,  and  in  the  clearer  air  !  " 
One  day  thus  longing,  gazing,  lo  !   in  awe 
Made  calm  by  ecstasy,  he  sudden  saw, 
Far  out  to  seaward,  mountain  peaks  appear, 
Slow  rising  from  the  water  pale  and  clear. 
Purple  and  azure,  there  they  were,  as  he 
Had  faithful  yearning  visions  they  must  be  ; 
Purple  and  azure  and  bright  rosy  red, 
Like  flashing  jewels,  on  the  sea  they  shed 
Their  quenchless  light. 

Great  tears  ran  down 

The  Singer's  cheeks,  and  through  the  busy  town, 
And  all  across  the  dreary  meadow  lands, 
And  all  along  the  dreary  lifeless  sands, 
He  called  aloud, 

"  Ho  !  tarry  !  tarry  ye  ! 
Behold  those  purple  mountains  in  the  sea  !  " 
The  people  saw  no  mountains  ! 

"  He  is  mad," 

They  careless  said,  and  went  their  way  and  had 
No  farther  thought  of  him. 

And  so,  among 

His  fellows'  noisy,  idle,  crowding  throng, 
The  Singer  walked,  as  strangers  walk  who  speak 
A  foreign  tongue  and  have  no  friend  to  seek. 
And  yet  the  silent  joy  which  filled  his  face 
Sometimes  their  wonder  stirred  a  little  space, 
And  following  his  constant  seaward  look, 
One  wistful  gaze  they  also  seaward  took. 


THE    SINGER'S   HILLS.  65 

One  clay  the  Singer  was  not  seen.     Men  said 

That  as  the  early  day  was  breaking  red, 

He  rowed  far  out  to  sea,  rowed  swift  and  strong 

t>* 

Toward  the  spot  where  he  had  gazed  so  long. 

Then  all  the  people  shook  their  heads,  and  went 

A  little  sadly,  thinking  he  had  spent 

His  life  in  vain,  and  sorry  they  no  more 

Should  hear  his  sweet  mad  songs  along  their  shore. 

But  when  the  sea  with  sunset  hues  was  dyed, 

A  boat  came  slowly  drifting  with  the  tide, 

Nor  oar  nor  rudder  set  to  turn  or  stay, 

And  on  the  crimson  deck  the  Singer  lay. 

"Ah,  he  is  dead,"  some  cried.     "  No  !  he  but  sleeps,'; 

Said  others,  "  madman  that  he  is,  joy  keeps 

Sweet  vigils  with  him  now." 

The  light  keel  grazed 

The  sands  ;  alert  and  swift  the  Singer  raised 
His  head,  and  with  red  cheeks  and  eyes  aflame 
Leaped  out,  and  shouted  loud,  and  called  by  name 
Each  man,  and  breathlessly  his  story  told. 
"  Lo,  I  have  landed  on  the  hills  of  gold  ! 
See,  these  are  flowers,  and  these  are  fruits,  and  these 
Are  boughs  from  off  the  giant  forest  trees  ; 
And  these  are  jewels  which  lie  loosely  there, 
And  these  are  stuffs  which  beauteous  maidens  wear !" 
And  staggering  he  knelt  upon  the  sands 
As  laying  burdens  down. 

But  empty  hands 

His  fellows  saw,  and  passed  on  smiling.     Yet, 
The  ecstasy  in  which  his  face  was  set 
Again  smote  on  their  hearts  with  sudden  sense 
Of  half  involuntary  reverence. 


66  VERSES. 

And  some  said,  whispering,  "  Alack,  is  he 
The  madman  ?     Have  ye  never  heard  there  be 
Some  spells  which  make  men  blind  ?  " 

And  thenceforth  they 

More  closely  watched  the  Singer  day  by  day, 
Till  finally  they  said,  "  He  is  not  mad. 
There  be  such  hills,  and  treasure  to  be  had 
For  seeking  there  !     We  too  without  delay 
Will  sail." 

And  of  the  men  who  sailed  that  way, 
Some  found  the  purple  mountains  in  the  sea, 
Landed,  and  roamed  their  treasure  countries  free, 
And  drifted  back  with  brimming  laden  hands. 
Walking  along  the  lifeless  silent  sands, 
The  Singer,  gazing  ever  seaward,  knew, 
Well  knew  the  odors  which  the  soft  wind  blew 
Of  all  the  fruits  and  flowers  and  boughs  they  bore. 
Standing  with  hands  stretched  eager  on  the  shore, 
When  they  leaped  out,  he  called,  "  Now  God  be  praised, 
Sweet  comrades,  were  they  then  not  fair  ?" 

Amazed, 

And  with  dull  scorn,  the  other  men  who  brought 
No  treasures,  found  no  mountains,  and  saw  naught 
In  these  men's  hands,  beheld  them  kneeling  low, 
Lifting,  shouting,  and  running  to  and  fro 
As  men  unlading  argosies  whose  freight 
Of  gorgeous  things  bewildered  by  its  weight. 

Tireless    the  great  years   waxed ;   the    great  years 

waned ; 
Slowly  the  Singer's  comrades  grew  and  gained 


THE  SINGER'S  HILLS.  67 

Till  they  were  goodly  number. 

No  man's  scorn 

Could  hurt  or  hinder  them.     No  pity  born 
Of  it  could  make  them  blush,  or  once  make  less 
Their  joy's  estate  ;  and  as  for  loneliness 
They  knew  it  not. 

Still  rise  the  magic  hills, 

Purple  and  gold  and  red  ;  the  shore  still  thrills 
With  fragrance  when  the  sunset  winds  begin 
To  blow  and  waft  the  subtle  odors  in 
From  treasure  laden  boats  that  drift,  and  bide 
The  hours  and  moments  of  the  wave  and  tide, 
Laden  with  fruits  and  boughs  and  flowers  rare, 
And  jewels  such  as  monarchs  do  not  wear, 
And  costly  stuffs  which  dazzle  on  the  sight, 
Stuffs  wrought  for  purest  virgin,  bravest  knight ; 
And  men  with  cheeks  all  red,  and  eyes  aflame, 
And  hearts  that  call  to  hearts  by  brothers'  name, 
Still  leap  out  on  the  silent  lifeless  sands, 
And  staggering  with  over-burdened  hands 
Joyous  lay  down  the  treasures  they  have  brought, 
While  smiling,  pitying,  the  world  sees  nought ! 


68  VERSES. 


COVERT. 


NE  day,  when  sunny  fields  lay  warm  and  still, 
And  from   their  tufted  hillocks,  thick  and 

sweet 
With  moss  and  pine  and  ferns,  such  spicy 

heat 

Rose  up,  it  seemed  the  air  to  over-fill, 
And  quicken  every  sense  with  subtle  thrill, 
I  rambled  on  with  careless,  aimless  feet, 
And  lingered  idly,  finding  all  so  sweet. 

Sudden,  almost  beneath  my  footsteps'  weight, 

Almost  before  the  sunny  silence  heard 

Their  sound,  from  a  low  bush,  which  scarcely  stirred 
A  twig  at  lightening  of  its  hidden  freight, 
Flew,  frightened  from  her  nest,  the  small  brown  mate 

Of  some  melodious,  joyous,  soaring  bird, 

Whose  song  that  instant  high  in  air  I  heard. 


"  Ah  !  Heart,"  I  said,  "when  days  are  warm  and  sweet, 
And  sunny  hours  for  very  joy  are  still, 
And  every  sense* feels  subtle,  languid  thrill 
Of  voiceless  memory's  renewing  heat, 
Fly  not  at  sound  of  strangers'  aimless  feet ! 
Of  thy  love's  distant  song  drink  all  thy  fill  ! 
Thy  hiding-place  is  safe.     Glad  heart,  keep  still !  " 


WAITING. 


WAITING. 


ORNl 


KNOW  it  will  not  be  to-day ; 

I  know  it  will  not  be  to-morrow  ; 

Oh,  half  in  joy  and  half  in  sorrow, 
I  watch  the  slow  swift  hours  away ; 


I  bid  them  haste,  then  bid  them  stay, 
I  long  so  for  the  coming  day. 

I  long  so,  I  would  rather  wait ; 
Each  hour  I  see  the  unseen  comer ; 
Each  hour  turns  ripe  in  secret  summer 

The  joys  which  I  anticipate. 

0  precious  feet,  come  slow,  come  late ! 

1  long  so,  it  is  bliss  to  wait ! 

Ah,  sweet  sad  life,  so  far  to-day ! 

Ah,  sweet  sad  life,  so  near  to-morrow  ! 

Can  joy  be  joy  when  we  miss  sorrow  ? 
When  earth's  last  sun  has  rolled  away 
In  tideless  time,  and  we  can  say 
No  more,  "To-morrow,"  or  "  To-day"  ? 


70  VERSES. 


RENUNCIATION. 

WHEREFORE  thus,  apart  with  droop 
ing  wings 

Thou  stillest,  saddest  angel, 
With  hidden  face,  as  if  but  bitter  things 
Thou  hadst,  and  no  evangel 
Of  good  tidings  ? 

Thou  know'st  that  through  our  tears 

Of  hasty,  selfish  weeping, 
Comes  surer  sun ;  and  for  our  petty  fears 

Of  loss,  thou  hast  in  keeping 
A  greater  gain  than  all  of  which  we  dreamed. 

Thou  knowest  that  in  grasping 
The  bright  possessions  which  so  precious  seemed, 

We  lose  them  ;  but,  if  clasping 
Thy  faithful  hand,  we  tread  with  steadfast  feet 

The  path  of  thy  appointing, 
There  waits  for  us  a  treasury  of  sweet 

Delight;  royal  anointing 
With  oil  of  gladness  and  of  strength  ! 

O,  things 

Of  Heaven,  Christ's  evangel 
Bearing,  call  us  with  shining  face  and  poised  wings, 

Thou  sweetest,  dearest  angel  ! 


BURNT  SHIPS.  71 


BURNT    SHIPS. 

LOVE,  sweet   Love,  who  came  with  rosy 

sail 

And  foaming  prow  across  the  misty  sea  ! 
O  Love,  brave  Love,  whose  faith  was  full 

and  free 

That  lands  of  sun  and  gold,  which  could  not  fail, 
Lay  in  the  west,  that  bloom  no  wintry  gale 

Could  blight,  and  eyes  whose  love  thine  own  should 

be, 

Called  thee,  with  steadfast  voice  of  prophecy, 
To  shores  unknown ! 

O  Love,  poor  Love,  avail 
Thee  nothing  now  thy  faiths,  thy  braveries  ; 
There  is  no  sun,  no  bloom  ;  a  cold  wind  strips 
The  bitter  foam  from  off  the  wave  where  dips 
No  more  thy  prow  ;  the  eyes  are  hostile  eyes  ; 
The  gold  is  hidden  ;  vain  thy  tears  and  cries  ; 
O  Love,  poor  Love,  why  didst  thou  burn  thy  ships  ? 


72  VERSES. 


RESURGAM. 

OW,  still,  unutterably  weak, 

In  human  helplessness  more  helpless  than 
The  smallest  of  God's  other  creatures  can 
Be  left,  I  lie  and  do  not  speak. 
Walls  rise  and  close 
Around.     No  warning  shows 
To  me,  who  am  but  blind,  which  wall 
Will  shelter,  and  which  one  will  fall 
And  crush  me  in  the  dust, 
Not  that  I  sinned,  but  that  it  must. 
Each  hour,  within  my  heart,  some  sweet  hope 

dies. 

Each  night  the  dead  form  lies 
Of  some  fair  purpose  which  I  could  not  save, 
Ready  for  day  to  carry  out  and  hide 
In  a  dishonored  grave. 

My  strongest  will 

Finds  stronger  fate  stand  side  by  side 
With  it,  its  utmost  efforts  conquering  still 
With  such  swift  might,  the  dust  in  which  I  lie 
Scarce  quivers  with  my  struggle  and  my  pain, 
Scarce  echoes  with  my  cry. 
Grief  comes  and  passes  by, 
And  Joy  comes  hand  in  hand 
With  Grief,  each  bearing  crowns  with  buds  of 

snow, 
Both  laying  crowns  upon  my  head. 

Soon  as  the  buds  are  open,  it  were  vain 
To  try  to  separate  or  understand  — 


RESURGAM.  73 

No  sense  of  mine  can  feel  or  know  — 
Which  flowers  the  hand  of  Joy  has  shed, 
And  which  the  hand  of  Pain. 

Therefore  I  do  not  choose  ; 
Fearing,  desiring  equally  from  each, 

I  wait.     I  do  not  dare  refuse. 
Only  one  sound  can  reach 
Me  where  I  lie,  can  stir  my  veins, 
Or  make  me  lift  my  eyes. 
That  sound  drops  from  the  skies, 
A  still  small  voice,  —  round  it  great  silence  lies: 
"Not  one  of  all  these  things  remains. 
Thou  shalt  arise  !  " 

Somewhere  on  earth, 

Marked,  sealed,  mine  from  its  hour  of  birth, 
A  stairway  lies,  down  which  I  shall  descend, 
And  pass  through  a  dark  gate,  which  at  my 

name, 

And  at  no  other,  will  swing  back  and  close. 
Where  lies  this  stairway  no  man  knows, 
No  man  has  even  wondered.     Only  I 
Remember  it  continually. 

Spring  never  came, 

Her  grasses  setting,  that  I  did  not  bend 
Low  in  the  fields,  saying  :   "  Lend 
But  part  trust,  O  Summer  !     Many  graves, 
Before  this  sweet  grass  waves 
Half  grown,  must  open.     Ah  !  will  reapers  reap 

Harvest  from  my  low  resting-place 
This  year  ?     Or  will  the  withered  sods  and  I 


74  1'ERSES. 

Lifeless  together  lie, 
With  silent,  upturned  face, 
Before  the  autumn  winds  sweep  by  ?  " 
And  when  the  winter  snows  lie  deep, 
I  think  :   "  How  hard  to  find, 
Just  now,  those  hidden  stairs  that  wind 
For  me."     The  time  must  near  the  end. 
Perhaps  for  those  I  leave  behind, 
More  sad  to  see  the  snow.     But  its  pure  white, 
I  think,  would  shed  a  little  light, 

And  stretch  like  alabaster  skies 
Above  the  stairway  dark  I  must  descead, 
That  I  may  rise. 


Somewhere  on  earth, 

Marked,  sealed,  mine  from  its  hour  of  birth, 
There  lies  a  shining  stone, 

My  own. 

Perhaps  it  still  is  in  the  quarry's  hold. 
Oh  !  Pine  Tree,  wave  in  winter's  cold 
Swifter  above  it ;  in  the  summer's  heat 
Drop  spices  on  it,  thick  and  sweet ; 
Quicken  its  patient  crystals'  growth. 
Oh  !  be  not  loth, 
Quarry  and  Pine, 
And  stir  of  birds  in  the  still  North, 

And  suns  that  shine,  — 

Give  up  my  smooth  white  stone  !    Hasten  it  forth. 
My  soul  in  bondage  lies. 
I  must  arise. 


RESURGAM.  75 

Perhaps  upon  the  shining  stone, 

My  own, 

Even  to-day  the  hammers  ring. 
The  workman  does  not  sing. 
He  is  a  lover  and  he  has  a  child  ; 
To  him  a  gravestone  is  a  fearful  thing. 

He  has  not  smiled 
Since  under  his  strong  hands  the  white  stone 

came, 

Though  he  is  slow  and  dull, 
And  could  not  give  a  name 
To  thoughts  which  fill  his  heart  too  full 

Of  prophecy  and  pain. 

O  Workman,  sing  !     See  how  the  white  dust  flies 
And  glistens  in  the  sunny  air. 
No  grain  but  counts  ; 
Some  fair  spot  grows  more  fair 
By  it,  each  moment.     In  the  skies, 

My  moment  must  be  near. 
Workman,  there  is  on  earth  no  loss,  no  waste. 
Sing  loud,  and  make  all  haste  ; 
I  must  arise. 

Perhaps  even  now  the  shining  stone, 

My  own, 

Stands  ready,  —  arch  and  base, 
And  chiselled  lines,  and  space 
For  name  all  done  :  and  yesterday 
Some  sorrowing  ones  stood  round  it  silently, 

And  looked  at  it  through  tears, 

But  passed  it  by, 


7  6  VERSES. 

Saying,  with  trembling  lips  :  "  No,  no  ! 
For  stone  more  beautiful  than  this  we  seek. 
Sculptor,  dost  thou  not  know 
What  lines  will  make  the  marble  show 
A  deeper  grief?  "     Ah  !  mourners,  speak 
In  lower  voice.     Ye  do  not  see 

What  presence  guards 
The  stone.     More  than  ye  dream  retards 
Your  will.     The  stone  waits  there  for  me. 
My  soul  in  bondage  lies. 
I  must  arise. 

Then,  when  I  have  descended,  and  the  stone 

Above  the  stairway  has  been  set, 
The  tears  of  those  who  reckoned  me  their  own 

A  little  space  will  wet 
The  grass  ;  but  soon  all  saddened  days 
Count  up  to  comforted  and  busy  years  : 
All  living  men  must  go  their  ways 
And  leave  their  dead  behind.     The  tideless  light 
Of  sun  and  moon  and  stars,  —  silence  of  night 
And  noise  of  day,  and  whirling  of  the  great 

Round  world  itself, — yea, 
All  things  which  are  and  are  not  work  to  lay 

The  dead  away. 

The  crumbling  of  the  stone,  more  late, 
The  sinking  of  the  little  mound 
To  unmarked  level,  where  with  noisy  sound 
Roam  idle  and  unwitting  feet, 
Least  tokens  are  and  smallest  part 

Of  the  oblivion  complete 


RESURGAM.  77 

Which  wraps  a  human  grave  ; 
And  unto  me,  the  hour  when  the  last  heart 

Has  ceased  to  save 
My  memory,  the  year 
That  sees  my  white  stone  lying  low, 
The  century  that  sees  the  grave  mound  grow, 
Free  of  my  dust,  to  solid  earth  again, 
Made  ready  for  new  dead,  — •  all  these  will  be 

Alike  to  me, 

Alike  uncounted  will  remain. 
Their  sound  I  shall  not  hear 

As  I  arise. 

They  mark  no  moments  in  the  skies 
Through  which  I  mount.     As  constant  as 

God's  law, 

Bearing  all  joy  and  grief  my  first  years  saw, 
Even  my  babyhood,  — 
Bearing  all  evil  and  all  good 
Of  ripest  age,  —  nowise 
Escaping  and  nowise  forgetting  one 
Of  all  the  actions  done,  — 
And  bearing  all  that  lies 
In  utmost  law  for  me, — all  God's  great  will, 
All  God's  great  mercy,  —  still 
I  shall  arise. 

The  fool  asks,  "With  what  flesh  ?  in  joy  or  pain? 
Helped  or  unhelped  ?  and  lonely,  or  again 

Surrounded  by  our  earthly  friends  ?  " 
I  know  not ;  and  I  glory  that  I  do 

Not  know :    that  for  Eternity's  great  ends 


78  VERSES. 

God  counted  me  as  worthy  of  such  trust, 
That  I  need  not  be  told. 

I  hold 

That  if  it  be 

Less  than  enough  to  any  soul  to  know 
Itself  immortal,  immortality 
In  all  its  boundless  spaces  will  not  find 
A  place  designed 
So  small,  so  low, 

That  to  a  fitting  home  such  soul  can  go. 
Out  to  the  earthward  brink 
Of  that  great  tideless  sea 
Light  from  Christ's  garments  streams. 
Cowards  who  fear  to  tread  such  beams 
The  angels  can  but  pity  when  they  sink. 
Believing  thus,  I  joy  although  I  lie  in  dust 

I  joy,  not  that  I  ask  or  choose, 
But  simply  that  I  must. 

I  love  and  fear  not ;  and  I  cannot  lose, 
One  instant,  this  great  certainty  of  peace. 
Long  as  God  ceases  not,  I  cannot  cease ; 
I  must  arise. 


THE   VILLAGE  LIGHTS.  79 


THE    VILLAGE    LIGHTS. 

NLY  a  little  village  street, 

Lying  along  a  mountain's  side  ; 
Only  the  silences  which  meet 
When  weary  hands  and  weary  feet 
By  night's  sweet  rest  are  satisfied  ; 
Only  the  dark  of  summer  nights  ; 
Only  the  commonest  of  sights, 
The  glimmer  of  the  village  lights  ! 

I  know  not,  then,  why  it  should  bring 
Into  my  eyes  such  sudden  tears. 

But  to  the  mountain's  sheltering 

The  little  village  seems  to  cling, 
As  child,  all  unaware  of  fears, 

Unconscious  that  it  is  caressed, 

In  perfect  peace  and  perfect  rest 

Asleep  upon  its  mother's  breast. 

No  stir,  no  sound  !     The  shadows  creep. 

The  old  and  young,  in  common  trust, 
Are  lying  down  to  wait,  asleep, 
While  Life  and  Joy  will  come  to  keep 

With  Death  and  Pain  what  tryst  they  must. 
O  faith  !  for  faith  almost  too  great ! 
Come  slow,  O  day  of  evil  freight ! 
O  village  hearts,  sleep  well,  sleep  late ! 


VERSES. 


TRANSPLANTED. 

HEN    Christ,   the  Gardener,  said,  "These 

many  years 

Behold  how  I  have  waited 
For  fruit  upon  this  barren  tree,  which  bears 

But  leaves  !     With  unabated 
Patience  I  have  nurtured  it";  have  fed 

Its  roots  with  choicest  juices  ; 
The  sweetest  suns  their  tender  warmth  have  shed 

On  it  ;  still  it  refuses 
Its  blossom  ;  all  the  balmiest  summer  rain 

Has  bathed  it  ;  unrepaying, 
Still,  its  green  and  glittering  leaves,  in  vain 

And  empty  show  arraying, 
It  flaunts,  contented  in  its  uselessness, 

Ever  my  eye  offending. 
Uproot  it !     Set  it  in  the  wilderness  ! 

There  no  more  gentle  tending 
Shall  it  receive  ;  but,  pricked  by  nettle  stings, 

And  bruised  and  hurt,  and  crowded 
By  stones,  and  weeds,  and  noxious  growths  of  things 

That  kill,  and  chilled  'neath  shrouded 
And  sunless  skies,  from  whose  black  clouds  no  rain 

Shall  fall  to  soothe  its  anguish, 
Bearing  the  utmost  it  can  feel  of  pain, 

Unsuccored,  it  shall  languish  !  " 

When  next  across  the  wilderness  Christ  came, 
Seeking  his  Royal  Garden, 


TRA  NSPLANTED.  8 1 

A  tree  stood  in  his  pathway,  all  aflame, 

And  bending  with  its  burden 
Of  burnished  gold.     No  fruit  inside  the  wall 

Had  grown  to  such  perfection  ! 
It  was  the  outcast  tree  !     Deprived  of  all 

Kind  nurture  and  protection, 
Thrust  out  among  vile  things  of  poisonous  growth, 

Condemned,  disgraced,  and  banished, 
Lonely  and  scorned,  its  energies  put  forth 

Anew.     All  false  show  vanished  ; 
Its  roots  struck  downward  with  determined  hold, 

No  more  the  surface  roaming  ; 
And  from  th'  unfriendly  soil,  a  thousand-fold 

Of  yield  compelled. 

The  coming 
Of  the  Gardener  now  in  sweet  humility 

It  waited,  trusting,  trembling  ; 
Then  Christ,  the  Gardener,  smiled  and  said  : 

"  O  tree, 
This  day,  in  the  assembling 

Of  mine,  in  Paradise,  shalt  thou  be  found. 

Henceforth  in  me  abiding, 
More  golden  fruit  shalt  thou  bring  forth  ;  and  round 

Thy  root  the  living  waters  gliding 
Shall  give  the  greenness  which  can  never  fade. 
While  angels,  with  thy  new  name  sealing 

Thee,  shall  come,  and  gather  in  thy  shade 
Leaves  for  the  nations'  healing  !  " 


82  VERSES. 


BEST. 

OTHER,  I  see  you  with  your  nursery  light, 
Leading  your  babies,  all  in  white, 

To  their  sweet  rest  ; 
Christ,   the  Good    Shepherd,  carries  mine 

to-night, 
And  that  is  best. 


I  cannot  help  tears,  when  I  see  them  twine 

Their  fingers  in  yours,  and  their  bright  curls  shine 

On  your  warm  breast  ; 
But  the  Saviour's  is  purer  than  yours  or  mine, 

He  can  love  best ! 

You  tremble  each  hour  because  your  arms 
Are  weak  ;  your  heart  is  wrung  with  alarms, 

And  sore  opprest ; 
My  darlings  are  safe,  out  of  reach  of  harms, 

And  that  is  best. 

You  know,  over  yours  may  hang  even  now 
Pain  and  disease,  whose  fulfilling  slow 

Naught  can  arrest ; 
Mine  in  God's  gardens  run  to  and  fro, 

And  that  is  best. 

You  know  that  of  yours,  your  feeblest  one 
And  dearest  may  live  long  years  alone, 
Unloved  unblest  ; 


MORNING-  GL  OR  Y.  83 

Mine  are  cherished  of  saints  around  God's  throne. 
And  that  is  best. 

You  must  dread  for  yours  the  crime  that  sears, 
Dark  guilt  unwashed  by  repentant  tears, 

And  unconfessed  ; 
Mine  entered  spotless  on  eternal  years, 

O,  how  much  the  best ! 

But  grief  is  selfish  ;   I  cannot  see 
Always  why  I  should  so  stricken  be, 

More  than  the  rest  ; 
But  I  know  that,  as  well  as  for  them,  for  me 

God  did  the  best  ! 


MORNING-GLORY. 

ONDROUS  interlacement! 
Holding  fast  to  threads  by  green  and  silky 

rings, 
With  the  dawn  it   spreads  its  white  and 

purple  wings  ; 

Generous  in  its  bloom,  and  sheltering  while  it  clings, 
Sturdy  morning-glory. 

Creeping  through  the  casement, 
Slanting  to  the  floor  in  dusty,  shining  beams, 
Dancing  on  the  door  in  quick,  fantastic  gleams, 


84  VERSES. 

Comes   the   new  day's  light,  and  pours  in  tideless 

streams, 
Golden  morning-glory. 

In  the  lowly  basement, 

Rocking  in  the  sun,  the  baby's  cradle  stands  ; 
Now  the  little  one  thrusts  out  his  rosy  hands  ; 
Soon  his  eyes  will  open  ;  then  in  all  the  lands 

No  such  morning-glory ! 


OCTOBER. 

ENDING    above   the   spicy  woods   which 

blaze, 
Arch  skies  so  blue  they  flash,  and  hold  the 

sun 

Immeasurably  far  ;  the  waters  run 
Too  slow,  so  freighted  are  the  river-ways 
With  gold  of  elms  and  birches  from  the  maze 
Of  forests.     Chestnuts,  clicking  one  by  one, 
Escape  from  satin  burs  ;  her  fringes  done, 
The  gentian  spreads  them  out  in  sunny  days, 
And,  like  late  revelers  at  dawn,  the  chance 
Of  one  sweet,  mad,  last  hour,  all  things  assail, 
And  conquering,  flush  and  spin  ;  while,  to  enhance 
The  spell,  by  sunset  door,  wrapped  in  a  veil 
Of  red  and  purple  mists,  the  summer,  pale, 
Steals  back  alone  for  one  more  song  and  dance. 


MY  BEES.  85 


MY  BEES. 

AN   ALLEGORY. 

BEES,  sweet  bees  !  "  I  said,  "  that  nearest 

field 

Is  shining  white  with  fragrant  immortelles. 
P'ly   swiftly   there   and   drain  those  honey 

wells." 

Then,  spicy  pines  the  sunny  hive  to  shield, 
I  set,  and  patient  for  the  autumn's  yield 
Of  sweet  1  waited. 

When  the  village  bells 

Rang  frosty  clear,  and  from  their  satin  cells 
The  chestnuts  leaped,  rejoicing,  I  unsealed 
My  hive. 

Alas  !  no  snowy  honey  there 
Was  stored.     My  wicked  bees  had  borne  away 
Their  queen  and  left  no  trace. 

That  very  day, 

An  idle  drone  who  sauntered  through  the  air 
I  tracked  and  followed,  and  he  led  me  where 
My  truant  bees  and  stolen  honey  lay. 
Twice  faithless  bees  !     They  had  sought  out  to  eat 
Rank,  bitter  herbs.     The  honey  was  not  sweet. 


86  VERSES. 


THE    ABBOT     PAPHNUTIUS. 

]OW  on  the  gray  stone  floor  Paphnutius  knelt 
Scourging  his  breast,  and  drawing  tight  bis 

belt 
Of  bloody  nails. 

"  O  God,  dear  God  !  "  he  cried, 
"  These  many  years  that  I  have  crucified 
My  sinful  flesh,  and  called  upon  thee  night 
And  day,  are  they  all  reckoned  in  thy  sight? 
And  wilt  thou  tell  me  now  which  saint  of  thine 
I  am  most  like  ?  and  is  there  bond  or  sign 
That  I  can  find  him  by  and  win  him  here, 
That  we  may  dwell  as  brothers  close  and  dear  ?" 

Silent  the  river  kept  its  gentle  flow 
Beneath  the  walls  ;  the  ash-trees  to  and  fro 
Swayed  silent,  save  a  sigh  ;  a  sunbeam  laid 
Its  bar  along  the  Abbot's  beads,  which  made 
Uncanny  rhythm  across  the  quiet  air, 
The  only  ghost  of  sound  which  sounded  there, 
As  fast  their  smooth-worn  balls  he  turned  and  told, 
And  trembled,  thinking  he  had  been  too  bold. 
But  suddenly,  with  solemn  clang  and  swell, 
In  the  high  tower  rang  out  the  vesper-bell; 
And  subtly  hidden  in  the  pealing  tones, 
Melodious  dropping  from  celestial  thrones, 
These  words  the  glad  Paphnutius  thrilling  heard  : 
"  Be  not  afraid  '     In  this  thou  hast  not  erred  ; 


THE  ABBOT  PAPILVUTIUS.  87 

Of  all  my  saints,  the  one  whose  heart  most  suits 
To  thine  is  one  who,  playing  reedy  flutes, 
In  the  great  market-place  goes  up  and  down, 
While  men  and  women  dance,  in  yonder  town." 

Oh,  much  Paphnutius  wondered,  as  he  went 
To  robe  him  for  the  journey.     Day  was  spent, 
And  cunning  night  had  spread  and  lit  her  snares 
For  souls  made  weak  by  weariness  and  cares, 
When  to  the  glittering  town  the  Abbot  came. 
With  secret  shudder,  half  affright,  half  shame, 
Close  cowled,  he  mingled  in  the  babbling  throng, 
And  with  reluctant  feet  was  borne  along 
To  where,  by  torches'  fitful  glare  and  smoke, 
A  band  of  wantons  danced,  and  screamed,  and  spoke 
Such  words  as  fill  pure  men  with  shrinking  fear. 
"  Good  Lord  deliver  me  !     Can  he  be  here," 
The  frightened  Abbot  said,  "the  mar.  I  seek?" 
Lo,  as  he  spoke,  a  man  reeled  dizzy,  weak 
With  ribald  laughter,  clutching  him  by  gown 
And  shoulder  ;  and  before  his  feet  threw  down 
Soft  twanging  flutes,  which  rolled  upon  the  stone 
And  broke.     Outcried  the  Abbot  with  a  groan, 
Seizing  the  player  firm  in  mighty  hands, 
"  O  man  !  what  doest  thou  with  these  vile  bands 
Of  harlots  ?     God  hath  told  to  me  thou  art 
A  saint  of  his,  and  one  whose  life  and  heart 
Are  like  my  own  ;  and  I  have  journeyed  here 
For  naught  but  finding  thee." 

In  maze  and  fear, 
The  player  lifted  up  his  blood-shot  eyes, 


88  VERSES. 

And  stammered  drtmkenly,  "  Good  father,  lies 
Thy  road  some  other  way.     Take  better  heed 
Next  time  thou  seekest  saints  !     One  single  deed 
Of  good  I  never  did.     I  live  in  sins. 
Unhand  me  now  !  another  dance  begins." 
"Flute-player,"  said  the  Abbot,  stern  and  sweet, 
"  God  cannot  lie  !     Some  deed  thou  hast  done  meet 
For  serving  him.     Bethink  thee  now,  and  tell. 
Where  was  it  that  the  blessed  chance  befell  ? " 
Half-sobered  by  the  Abbot's  voice  and  mien, 
The  player  spoke  again,  "  No  more  I  ween 
Of  serving  God,  than  if  no  God  there  were  ; 
But  now  I  do  remember  me  of  her 
That  once  I  saved  from  hands  of  robber-men, 
Whose  chief  I  was.     I  know  I  wondered  then 
What  new  blood  could  have  quickened  in  my  veins. 
I  gave  her,  spite  myself,  of  our  rich  gains 
Three  hundred  pieces  of  good  gold,  to  free 
Her  husband  and  her  sons  from  slavery. 
But  love  of  God  had  nought  to  do  with  this  : 
I  know  him,  love  him  not ;  I  do  not  miss 
Nor  find  him  in  the  world.     I  love  my  sins. 
Now  let  me  go  !  another  dance  begins." 
"  Yes,  go  !  "  the  Abbot  gently  said,  and  took 
His  grasp  from  off  his  arm.     "  But,  brother,  look, 
If  God  has  thus  to  thee  this  one  good  deed 
So  fully  counted,  wilt  thou  not  take  heed 
Thyself,  remembering  him  ?  " 

Then  homeward  slow, 
Alone  and  sad,  where  he  had  thought  to  go 


THE  ABBOT  PAPHNUTIUS.  89 

Triumphant  with  a  new-found  brother-saint, 
The  Abbot  went.  But  vain  he  set  restraint 
Upon  his  wondering  thoughts  :  through  prayer,  through 

chant, 

The  question  ever  rang,  "  What  could  God  want 
To  teach  me,  showing  me  that  sinful  man 
As  saint  of  nearest  kin  to  me,  who  can 
Abide  no  sin  of  thought  or  deed." 

Three  days 

The  Abbot  went  his  patient,  silent  ways. 
The  river  lapped  in  gentle,  silent  flow 
The  cloister-wall;  the  ash-trees  to  and  fro 
Sv/ayed  silent,  save  a  sigh  :  the  third  night,  came  — 
Low  rapping  at  the  cloister-door,  in  shame 
And  fear  —  the  player  ! 

Then  Paphnutius  rose, 
His  pale  face  kindled  red  with  joyful  glows  ; 
The  monks  in  angry,  speechless  wonder  stood, 
Seeing  this  vagabond  to  brotherhood 
Made  so  soon  welcome.     But  the  Abbot  said, 
"O  brothers  !  this  flute-player  in  such  stead 
Is  held  of  God,  that,  when  in  loneliness 
I  knelt  and  prayed  for  some  new  saint  to  bless 
Our  house,  God  spoke,  and  told  me  this  man's  name, 
As  his  who  should  be  brother  when  he  came." 

Flute-player  and  Paphnutius  both  have  slept 
In  dust  for  centuries.     The  world  has  kept 
No  record  of  them  save  this  tale,  which  sets 
But  bootless  lesson  :  still  the  world  forgets 


9°  VERSES. 

That  God  knows  best  what  hearts  are  counted  his  ; 
Still  men  deny  the  thing  whose  sign  they  miss  ; 
Still  pious  souls  pray  as  Paphnutius  prayed 
For  brother-souls  in  their  own  semblance  made ; 
And  slowly  learn,  with  outcries  and  complaints, 
That  publicans  and  sinners  may  be  saints .' 


NOON. 

SWEET,  delusive  Noon, 

Which  the  morning  climbs  to  find; 
O  moment  sped  too  soon, 

And  morning  left  behind  ; 


While  pale  gray  hours  descend 
Fast  on  the  farther  slope, 

Where  a  darkness  marks  the  end 
Of  that  day's  work  and  hope. 

O  Noon,  if  thou  couldst  stay  ! 

Were  there  but  spell  to  arrest 
Thy  magic  moment,  —  to  slay 

Night  on  the  fair  sky's  breast, 

Or  make  the  morning  haste, 
Or  the  chilly  evening  tarry, 

And  the  liquid  light  they  waste 
Give  thee,  O  Noon,  to  carry! 


NOON.  91 


O  cruel,  stinted  drop, 

In  sapphire  chalice  so  deep 

That  if  million  suns  should  stop 
Its  walls  their  light  could  keep  I 


O  Love,  O  Joys  above 

All  words  of  my  telling,  stay ! 

Does  your  swiftness  mean  that  love 
Has  day,  and  noon  of  day  ? 

This  sweetness  more,  more  sweet, 
And  this  brightness  growing  bright, 

This  silent,  delicious  heat, 
This  dearer,  tenderer  light, — 

O  Love,  mean  these  a  noon, 

A  noon  which  thou  climb's t  to  find, 

That  moment  over  too  soon, 
With  morning  left  behind  ? 

O  Love,  we  kneel,  we  pray, 

For  our  sweet  Love's  precious  sake ; 
Set  here  the  bound  of  our  day ; 

Grant  us  this  choice  we  make. 

We  fear  the  gray  hour's  sight, 
The  moment  over  too  soon  ; 

Spare  us  the  chill  of  the  night ; 
We  will  forego  our  noon  ! 


92  VERSES. 


IN    THE    PASS. 

CROSS  my  road  a  mountain  rose  of  rock,  — 
Fierce,  naked  rock.     Its  shadow,  black  and 

chill, 
Shut  out  the    sun.      Gray   clouds,   which 

seemed  to  mock 

With  cruel  challenges  my  helpless  will, 
Sprang  up  and  scaled  the  steepest  crags.     The  shrill 
Winds,  two  and  two,  went  breathless  out  and  in, 
Filling  tne  darkened  air  with  evil  din. 

I  turned  away  my  weary  steps  and  said  : 
"This  must  be  confine  of  some  fearful  place  ; 
Here  is  no  path  for  mortal  man  to  tread. 
Who  enters  here  will  tremble,  face  to  face 
With  powers  of  darkness,  whose  unearthly  race 
In  cloud  and  wind  and  storm  delights  to  dwell, 
Ruling  them  all. by  an  uncanny  spell." 

The  guide  but  smiled,  and,  holding  fast  my  hand, 

Compelled  me  up  a  path  I  had  not  seen. 

It  wound  round  ledges  where  I  scarce  could  stand  ; 

It  plunged  to  sudden  sunless  depths  between 

Immeasurable  cliffs,  which  seemed  to  lean 

Together,  closing  as  we  passed,  like  door 

Of  dungeon  which  would  open  nevermore. 

I  said  again  :  "  I  will  not  go.     This  way 
Is  not  for  mortal  feet."     Again  the  guide 


IN  THE  PASS.  93 

But  smiled,  and  I  again  could  but  obey. 

The  path  grew  narrow  ;  thundering  by  its  side, 

As  loud  as  ocean  at  its  highest  tide, 

A  river  rushed,  all  black,  and  green,  and  white, 

A  boiling  stream  of  molten  malachite. 

Sudden  I  heard  a  joyous  cry,  "  Behold,  behold  !  " 
And,  smiling  still  on  me,  the  good  guide  turned, 
And  pointed  where  broad,  sunny  fields  unrolled 
And  spread  like  banners  ;  green,  so  green  it  burned, 
And  lit  the  air  like  red  ;  and  blue  which  yearned 
From  all  the  lofty  dome  of  sky,  and  bent 
And  folded  low  and  circling  like  a  tent; 

And  forests  ranged  like  armies,- round  and  round, 

At  feet  of  mountains  of  eternal  snow  ; 

And  valleys  all  alive  with  happy  sound ; 

The  song  of  birds  ;  swift  brooks'  delicious  flow  ; 

The  mystic  hum  of  million  things  that  grow  ; 

The  stir  of  men  ;  and  gladdening  every  way, 

Voices  of  little  children  at  their  play  ; 

And  shining  banks  of  flowers  which  words  refuse 
To  paint  ;  such  colors  as  in  summer  light 
The  rarest,  fleetest  summer  rainbows  use, 
But  set  in  gold  of  sun,  and  silver  white 
Of  dew,  as  thick  as  gems  which  blind  the  sight 
On  altar  fronts,  inlaid  with  priceless  things, 
The  jewelled  gifts  of  centuries  of  kings. 

Then,  sitting  half  in  dream,  and  half  in  fear 
Of  how  such  wondrous  miracle  were  wrought. 


94  VERSES. 

Thy  name,  dear  friend,  I  sudden  seemed  to  hear 
Through  all  the  charmed  air. 

My  loving  thought 

Through  patient  years  had  vainly  groped  and  sought, 
And  found  no  hidden  thing  so  rare,  so  good, 
That  it  might  furnish  thy  similitude. 

O  noble  soul,  whose  strengths  like  mountains  stand. 
Whose  purposes,  like  adamantine  stone, 
Bar  roads  to  feeble  feet,  and  wrap  the  land 
In  seeming  shadow,  thou,  too,  hast  thine  own 
Sweet  valleys  full  of  flowers,  for  me  alone, 
Unseen,  unknown,  undreamed  of  by  the  mass, 
Who  do  not  know  the  secret  of  the  Pass. 

CORTINA  D'AMPEZZO,  AMPEZZO  PASS,  June  22,  1869. 


AMREETA   WINE. 

HE  rose  up  from  the  golden  feast, 

And  her  voice  rang  like  the  sea  ; 
"  Sir  Knight,  put  down  thy  glass  and  come 
To  the  battlement  with  me. 


"That  was  a  charmed  wine  thou  drank'st, 

Signed  white  from  heaven,  signed  black  from  hell 

Alas  !  alas  !  for  the  bitter  thing 

The  sign  hath  forced  thy  lips  to  tell  !  " 


AMREETA    WINE,  95 

"  Ho  here  !     Ho  there  !     Lift  up  and  bear 

My  choice  wine  out,"  she  said  ; 
"That  which  hath  brand  of  a  clasping  hand, 

And  the  seal  blood-red." 

14  Ho  here  !     Ho  there  !     To  the  castle  stair 

Bear  all  that  branded  wine  ; 
And  dash  it  far,  where  the  breakers  are 

Whitest,  of  the  brine  ! 

"  Let  no  man  dare  to  shrink  or  spare, 

Or  one  red  drop  to  spill ; 
Of  the  endless  pain  of  that  wine's  hot  stain 

Let  the  salt  sea  bear  its  fill. 

"  O  woe  of  mine  !  O  woe  of  thine  ! 

O  woe  of  endless  thirst  ! 
O  woe  for  the  Amreeta  wine, 

By  fate  and  thee  accurst !  " 

The  knight  spake  words  of  sore  dismay 
But  her  face  was  white  like  stone  ; 

She  saw  him  mount  and  ride  away, 
And  made  no  moan. 

The  wind  blew  east,  the  wind  blew  west, 

The  airs  from  sepulchres  ; 
No  royal  heart  in  all  of  them 

So  dead  as  hers  1 


96  VERSES. 


SOLITUDE. 


SOLITUDE,"  I  said,  "sweet  Solitude! 

I  follow  fast ;   I  kneel  to  find  thy  trace  ; 

I  listen  low  in  every  secret  place  ; 

I  lay  rough  hand  on  eager  human  lips  ; 
I  set  aside  all  near  companionships  ; 
I  know  thou  hast  a  subtler,  rarer  good. 

0  Priestess,  how  shalt  thou  be  found  and  wooed  ? 

1  tracked  her  where  she  passed  in  trackless  fields  ; 
I  trod  her  path  where  footprint  had  not  staid 

In  sunless  woods  ;   I  stopped  to  hark  where  laid 
Her  very  shadow  its  great  bound  of  light 
And  gloom  in  lifeless  arctic  day  and  night ; 
And  where,  to  tropic  sun,  mid-ocean  yields 
Its  silent,  windless  waves,  like  mirror-shields  ; 

But  found  her  not.     Great  tribes  roamed  free 

In  every  trackless  field  and  wood.     More  plain 

Than  speech  I  heard  their  voice:  in  rain,  the  rain 

Of  endless  chatter,  and  in  sun,  the  sun 

Of  merry  laughing  noise,  were  never  done. 

All  silence  dinned  with  sound  ;  and,  jostling  me, 

In  every  place,  went  crowds  I  could  not  see. 

In  anger,  then,  at  last  I  cried,  "  Betray 
Whomever  thou  canst  cheat,  O  Solitude, 
With  promise  of  thy  subtler,  rarer  good  ! 


AS  i  WILL:'  97 

I  seek  my  joy  henceforth  in  haunts  of  men, 

Forgetting  thee,  where  thou  hast  never  been  ! " 

When,  lo  !  that  instant  sounded  close  and  sweet, 

Above  the  rushing  of  the  city  street, 

The  voice  of  Solitude  herself,  to  say, 

"  Ha,  loving  comrade,  met  at  last !    Which  way  ?  " 


"NOT  AS  I  WILL." 

LINDFOLDED  and  alone  I  stand 
With  unknown  thresholds  on  each  hand ; 
The  darkness  deepens  as  I  grope, 
Afraid  to  fear,  afraid  to  hope  : 

Yet  this  one  thing  I  learn  to  know 

Each  day  more  surely  as  I  go, 

That  doors  are  opened,  ways  are  made, 

Burdens  are  lifted  or  are  laid, 

By  some  great  law  unseen  and  still, 

Unfathomed  purpose  to  fulfil, 
"  Not  as  I  will." 

Blindfolded  and  alone  I  wait ; 
Loss  seems  too  bitter,  gain  too  late  ; 
Too  heavy  burdens  in  the  load 
And  too  few  helpers  on  the  road  ; 
And  joy  is  weak  and  grief  is  strong, 
And  years  and  days  so  long,  so  long: 
Yet  this  one  thing  I  learn  to  know 
Each  day  more  surely  as  I  go, 


98  VERSES. 

That  I  am  glad  the  good  and  ill 
By  changeless  law  are  ordered  still, 
"  Not  as  I  will." 

"  Not  as  I  will "  :  the  sound  grows  sweet 
Each  time  my  lips  the  words  repeat. 
"  Not  as  I  will  "  :  the  darkness  feels 
More  safe  than  light  when  this  thought  steals 
Like  whispered  voice  to  calm  and  bless 
All  unrest  and  all  loneliness. 
"  Not  as  I  will,"  because  the  One 
Who  loved  us  first  and  best  has  gone 
Before  us  on  the  road,  and  still 
For  us  must  all  his  love  fulfil, 
"  Not  as  we  will." 


LAND.  99 


LAND. 

LAND,  sweet  land!     New  World  !  my 

world  ! 

No  mortal  knows  what  seas  I  sail 
With  hope  and  faith  which  never  fail, 
With  heart  and  will  which  never  quail, 
Till  on  thy  shore  my  sails  are  furled, 
O  land,  sweet  land  !     New  World  !  my  world  ! 

0  land,  sweet  land  !     New  World  !  my  world ! 

1  cross  again,  again,  again 

The  magic  seas.     Each  time  I  reign 
Crowned  conqueror.     Each  time  remain 
New  shores  on  which  my  sails  are  furled, 
A  sweeter  land  !     A  newer  world  ! 

0  world,  New  World  !     Sweet  land,  my  land  ! 

1  come  to-day,  as  first  I  came. 
The  sea  is  swift,  the  sky  is  flame. 

My  low  song  sings  thy  nameless  name. 

Lovers  who  love,  ye  understand  ! 

O  sweetest  world  !     O  sweetest  land  ! 

OCTOBER  2d,  1871. 


100 


VERSES. 


OPPORTUNITY. 

DO  not  know  if,  climbing  some  steep  hill 
Through  fragrant  wooded  pass,  this  glimpse 

I  bought ; 

Or  whether  in  some  midday  I  was  caught 
To  upper  air,  where  visions  of  God's  will 
In  pictures  to  our  quickened  sense  fulfil 
His  word.     But  this  I  saw  : 

A  path  I  sought 

Through  wall  of  rock.     No  human  fingers  wrought 
The  golden  gates  which  opened,  sudden,  still, 
And  wide.     My  fear  was  hushed  by  my  delight. 
Surpassing  fair  the  lands  ;  my  path  lay  plain  ; 
Alas  !  so  spell-bound,  feasting  on  the  sight, 
I  paused,  that  I  but  reached  the  threshold  bright, 
When,  swinging  swift,  the  golden  gates  again 
Were  rocky  walls,  by  which  I  wept  in  vain  ! 


WHEN   THE   BABY   DIED. 


HEN  the  baby  died, 

On  every  side 

White  lilies  and  blue  violets  were  strown  ; 
Unreasoning,    the     mother's    heart    made 
moan: 


WHEN  THE  BABY  DIED.  101 

"  Who  counted  all  these  flowers  which  have  grown 

Unhindered  in  their  bloom? 

Was  there  not  room, 
O  Earth,  and  God,  couldst  thou  not  care 
For  mine  a  little  longer  ?     Fare 
Thy  way,  O  Earth  !     All  life,  all  death 
For  me  ceased  with  my  baby's  breath  ; 
All  Heaven  I  forget  or  doubt. 

Within,  without, 

Is  idle  chance,  more  pitiless  than  law." 
And  that  was  all  the  mother  saw. 


II. 

When-  the  baby  died, 

On  every  side 

Rose  strangers'  voices,  hard  and  harsh  and  loud. 
The  baby  was  not  wrapped  in  any  shroud. 
The  mother  made  no  sound.     Her  head  was  bowed 
That  men's  eyes  might  not  see 

Her  misery  ; 

But  in  her  bitter  heart  she  said, 
"  Ah  me  !  't  is  well  that  he  is  dead, 
My  boy  for  whom  there  was  no  food. 
If  there  were  God,  and  God  were  good, 
All  human  hearts  at  least  might  keep 

The  right  to  weep 

Their  dead.     There  is  no  God,  but  cruel  law." 
And  that  was  all  the  mother  saw. 


102  VEKSES. 

III. 

When  the  baby  died, 

On  every  side 

Swift  angels  came  in  shining,  singing  bands, 
And  oore  the  little  one,  with  gentle  hands, 
Into  the  sunshine  of  the  spirit  lands. 

And  Christ  the  Shepherd  said, 

•'  Let  them  be  led 
In  gardens  nearest  to  the  earth. 
One  mother  weepeth  over  birth, 
Anotner  weepeth  over  death  ; 
In  vain  all  Heaven  answereth. 
Laughs  from  the  little  ones  may  reach 

Their  ears,  and  teach 

Them  what,  so  blind  with  tears,  they  never  saw, 
That  of  all  life,  all  death,  God's  love  is  law." 


"OLD    LAMPS    FOR    NEW." 

SOUL!    wert    thou  a  poor  maid-servant, 

weak 

And  foolish,  and  unknowing  how  the  walls 
Of  shining  stones  and  silver,  and  fine  gold, 
Which  made  our  dwelling  glorious,  our  life 
Assured,  were  built,  that  thou  must  spring  at  call 
Of  our  most  deadly  foe,  lured  by  the  sound 


FEAST.  103 

And  glitter  of  his  hollow  brass,  and  give 
Into  his  treacherous  hands  our  all  ? 

And  now 

For  thee  and  me  remaineth  nothing  more, 
But  cold  and  hunger  and  the  desert  ! 

Soul, 

Rise  up  and  follow  him,  and  tarry  not, 
Nor  dare  to  call  thy  life  thine  own,  until 
Thou  hast  waylaid  him  sitting  at  his  feast, 
And  torn  our  talisman  from  off  his  breast ! 


FEAST. 

OR  days  when  guests  unbidden 

Walk  in  my  sun, 
With  steps  that  roam  unchidden, 

And  overrun 
My  vines  and  flowers,  and  hands 
That  rob  on  all  my  lands,  — 
For  such  days,  still  there  stands 
One  banquet,  one  ! 

One  banquet  which,  spread  under 

A  magic  mist, 
I  taste,  until  they  wonder 

What  light  has  kissed 
My  eyes,  and  where  the  grapes 
Have  hung,  whose  red  escapes 
In  mounting,  mantling  shapes, 

And  heats  my  wrist. 


104  VERSES. 

Crowned  with  its  rosy  flowers, 

Pouring  its  wine, 
Glide  faithful  ghosts  of  hours 

Long  dead  :  no  sign 
They  show  of  death,  or  chill, 
But  glowing,  smiling  still, 
Love's  utmost  joy  fulfil 

At  word  of  mine. 

And  ringeth  through  my  garden, 

The  tireless  pace 
Of  silver-mailed  warden, 

With  eastward  face, 
Who  calmly  bides  the  night, 
And  in  each  first,  red  light, 
Reads  prophecy  aright 

Of  that  day's  grace, 

When  guests  that  are  unbidden 
Shall  all  have  ceased  ; 

And  thy  dear  arms  unchidden, 
My  love,  my  priest, 

Shall  hold  me  while  the  hours 

That  were,  and  are,  fling  flowers? 

And  Hope,  the  warden,  pours 
Wine  for  our  feast. 


TWO  SUNDAYS.  105 


TWO   SUNDAYS. 


BABY,  alone,  in  a  lowly  door, 

Which  climbing  woodbine  made  still  lower, 

Sat  playing  with  lilies  in  the  sun. 

The  loud  church-bells  had  just  begun  ; 
The  kitten  pounced  in  the  sparkling  grass 
At  stealthy  spiders  that  tried  to  pass  ; 
The  big  watch-dog  kept  a  threatening  eye 
On  me,  as  I  lingered,  walking  by. 

The  lilies  grew  high,  and  she  reached  up 

On  tiny  tiptoes  to  each  gold  cup  ; 

And  laughed  aloud,  and  talked,  and  clapped 

Her  small,  brown  hands,  as  the  tough  stems  snapped. 

And  flowers  fell  till  the  broad  hearthstone 

Was  covered,  and  only  the  topmost  one 

Of  the  lilies  left.     In  sobered  glee 

She  said  to  herself,  "  That 's  older  than  me  !  " 


n. 

Two  strong  men  through  the  lowly  door, 
With  uneven  steps,  the  baby  bore  ; 
They  had  set  the  bier  on  the  lily  bed  ; 
The  lily  she  left  was  crushed  and  dead. 
The  slow,  sad  bells  had  just  begun, 


106  VERSES. 

The  kitten  crouched,  afraid,  in  the  sun  ; 
And  the  poor  watch-dog,  in  bewildered  pain, 
Took  no  notice  of  me  as  I  joined  the  train. 


SHOWBREAD. 

AST  imaged  pillars,  wrought  of  fir  and  palm, 
Past  bright  pomegranates,  swinging  on  their 

chain, 

And  bars  of  Tyrian  cedar,  overlain 
With  gold,  and  past  the  molten  sea  whose  calm 
Waves  drink  the  offerings  of  spice  and  balm, 
Lit  by  the  seven  sacred  lamps  whose  rain 
Of  fragrant  fire  the  almond  bowls  detain, 
Past  clear-eyed  cherubim,  without  alarm, 
And  into  shadow  of  the  mercy-seat 
We  pressed. 

No  priest  with  onyx-stones  to  meet 
Us  there  !     Alone  our  hunger,  face  to  face 
With  God,  ate  of  the  showbread,  sacred,  sweet ; 
And  listening,  heard  these  words  of  heavenly  grace, — 
"  One  greater  than  the  temple  fills  this  place.' 


TRIBUTE.  107 


TIDES. 

PATIENT  shore,  that  canst  not  go  to  meet 
Thy  love,  the  restless  sea,  how  comfortest 
Thou  all  thy  loneliness  ?     Art  thou  at  rest, 
When,  loosing  his  strong  arms  from  round 

thy  feet, 

He  turns  away  ?     Know'st  thou,  however  sweet 
That  other  shore  may  be,  that  to  thy  breast 
He  must  return  ?     And  when  in  sterner  test 
He  folds  thee  to  a  heart  which  does  not  beat, 
Wraps  thee  in  ice,  and  gives  no  smile,  no  kiss, 
To  break  long  wintry  days,  still  dost  thou  miss 
Naught  from  thy  trust?     Still  wait,  unfaltering, 
The  higher,  warmer  waves  which  leap  in  spring  ? 
O  sweet,  wise  shore,  to  be  so  satisfied  ! 
O  heart,  learn  from  the  shore  !     Love  has  a  tide ! 


TRIBUTE. 

R.   W.    E. 

II D WAY  in  summer,  face  to  face,  a  king 
met.     No  king  so  gentle  and  so  wise. 
He  calls  no  man  his  subject ;  but  his  eyes, 
In  midst  of  benediction,  questioning, 
Each  soul  compel.     A  first-fruits  offering 


108  VERSES. 

Each  soul  must  owe  to  him  whose  fair  land  lies 
Wherever  God  has  his.     No  white  dove  flies 
Too  white,  no  wine  too  red  and  rich,  to  bring. 
With  sudden  penitence  for  all  her  waste, 
My  soul  to  yield  her  scanty  hoards  made  haste, 
When  lo  !  they  shrank  and  failed  me  in  that  need. 
Like  wizard's  gold,  by  worthless  dust  replaced. 
My  speechless  grief,  the  king,  with  tender  heed, 
Thus  soothed  :     "  These  ashes  sow.     They  are  true 

seed." 

O  king  !  in  other  summer  may  I  stand 
Before  thee  yet,  the  full  ear  in  my  hand  ! 


"ALMS  AT  THE  BEAUTIFUL  GATE." 

H,  how   shall  we,  lame  from  the  mother's 

womb, 

The  temple  enter  !     Beautiful  in  vain 
For  us,  the  gate,  where  we,  in  double  pain, 
Of  suffering  and  of  loss,  can  find  no  room  ; 
Whose  whiteness  only  makes  our  outer  gloom 
The  blacker,  and  whose  shining  steps,  more  plain 
Than  words,  mock  cripples  weeping  to  attain 
The  inner  courts,  where  censers,  sweet  perfume, 
And  music  fill  the  air  ! 

O  sinful  fear! 

Dare  not  to  doubt.     Our  helplessness  laid  near 
That  gate,  is  safe  ;  our  faith  without  alarms 
Can  wait ;  the  good  apostles  will  appear  ; 


CORONATION.  109 

Our  crippled  beggary,  made  rich  by  alms 

Of  God,  shall  leap  and  praise,  in  grateful  psalms. 


CORONATION. 

T  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 

Wove  filmy  yellow  nets  of  sun  ; 
Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 
The  guards  fell  one  by  one. 


Through  the  king's  gate,  unquestioned  then, 
A  beggar  went,  and  laughed,  "This  brings 

Me  chance,  at  last,  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  being  kings." 

The  king  sat  bowed  beneath  his  crown, 
Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand  ; 

Watching  the  hour-glass  sifting  down 
Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

"  Poor  man,  what  wouldst  thou  have  of  me  ?  " 
The  beggar  turned,  and,  pitying, 

Replied,  like  one  in  dream,  "  Of  thee, 
Nothing.     I  want  the  king." 

Uprose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 
Shook  off  the  crown  and  threw  it  by. 

"  O  man,  thou  must  have  known,''  he  said, 
"  A  greater  king  than  I." 


HO 

Through  all  the  gates,  unquestioned  then, 
Went  king  and  beggar  hand  in  hand. 

Whispered  the  king,  "  Shall  I  know  when 
Before  his  throne  I  stand  ?  " 

The  beggar  laughed.     Free  winds  in  haste 
Were  wiping  from  the  king's  hot  brow 

The  crimson  lines  the  crown  had  traced. 
"  This  is  his  presence  now." 

At  the  kings's  gate,  the  crafty  noon 

Unwove  its  yellow  nets  of  sun  ; 
Out  of  their  sleep  in  terror  soon 

The  guards  waked  one  by  one. 

"  Ho  here!     Ho  there  !     Has  no  man  seen 

The  king  ?  "  The  cry  ran  to  and  fro  ; 
Beggar  and  king,  they  laughed,  I  ween, 
.  The  laugh  that  free  men  know. 

On  the  king's  gate  the  moss  grew  gray  ; 

The  king  came  not.     They  called  him  dead  ; 
And  made  his  eldest  son  one  day 

Slave  in  his  father's  stead. 


MY  XEW  FRIEND. 


Ill 


/r 
1T 

MY   NEW   FRIENK  ^NlA 

SHALLOW    voice    said,    bitterly,   "New 

friend  !  " 

As  if  the  old  alone  were  true,  and,  born 
Of  sudden   freak,   the   new   deserved   but 

scorn 
And  deep  distrust. 

If  love  could  condescend, 

What  scorn  in  turn  !     Do  men  old  garments  mend 
With  new  ?     And  put  the  new  wine,  red  at  morn, 
Into  the  last  year's  bottles,  thin  and  worn  ? 
But  love  and  loving  need  not  to  defend 
Themselves.     The  new  is  older  than  the  old  ; 
And  newest  friend  is  oldest  friend  in  this, 
That,  waiting  him,  we  longest  grieved  to  miss 
One  thing  we  sought. 

I  think  when  we  behold 

Full-  Heaven,  we  say  not,  "  Why  was  this  not  told  ?  " 
But,  *•  Ah  !     For  years  we  Ve  waited  for  this  bliss  !  " 


VERSES. 


ASTERS    AND    GOLDEN    ROD. 


KNOW  the  lands  are  lit 
With  all  the  autumn  blaze  of  Golden  Rod  ; 
And  everywhere  the  Purple  Asters  nod 
And  bend  and  wave  and  flit. 


But  when  the  names  I  hear, 
I  never  picture  how  their  pageant  lies 
Spread  out  in  tender  stateliness  of  guise, 
.The  fairest  of  the  year. 

I  only  see  one  nook, 

A  wooded  nook  —  half  sun,  half  shade  — 
Where  one  I  love  his  footsteps  sudden  stayed, 

And  whispered,  "  Darling,  look  !  " 

Two  oak  leaves,  vivid  green, 
Hung  low  among  the  ferns,  and  parted  wide  ; 
While  purple  Aster  Stars,  close  side  by  side, 

Like  faces  peered  between. 

Like  maiden  faces  set 

In  vine-wreathed  window,  waiting  shy  and  glad 
For  joys  whose  dim,  mysterious  promise  had 

But  promise  been,  as  yet. 

And,  like  proud  lovers  bent, 
In  regal  courtesy,  as  kings  might  woo, 
Tall  Golden  Rods,  bareheaded  in  the  dew, 

Above  the  Asters  leant. 


TWO  LOVES.  113 

Ah,  me  !     Lands  will  be  lit 
With  every  autumn's  blaze  of  Golden  Rod, 
And  purple  Asters  everywhere  will  nod 

And  bend  and  wave  and  flit ; 

Until,  like  ripened  seed, 
This  little  earth  itself,  some  noon,  shall  float 
OiF  into  space,  a  tiny  shining  mote, 

Which  none  but  God  will  heed ; 

But  never  more  will  be 

Sweet  Asters  peering  through  that  branch  of  oak 
To  hear  such  precious  words  as  dear  lips  spoke 

That  sunny  day  to  me. 


TWO    LOVES. 

OVE  beckoned  me  to  come  more  near, 
And  wail,  two  women's  songs  to  hear : 
The  songs  ran  sweet,  the  songs  ran  clear ; 
It  seemed  they  never  could  be  done. 
One  woman  sat  and  sang  in  shade, 
Her  still  hands  on  her  bosom  laid  ; 
The  other  sat  and  sang  in  sun. 

"  I  love  my  love,"  the  one  song  said, 
"  Because  he  lifts  such  kingly  head, 
And  walks  with  such  a  kingly  tread, 


H4  VERSES. 

That  men  kneel  down,  and  men  confess  ; 
And  women,  in  soft,  sad  surprise, 
Acknowledge,  by  their  longing  eyes, 

His  beauty  and  his  goodliness. 

"  His  glory  is  my  soul's  estate  ; 
Breathless  with  love  I  watch  and  wait 
The  hours  of  his  triumphant  fate, 

Knowing  that  far  the  greater  part 
Of  all  his  joy  in  all  his  fame 
Surrenders  to  my  whispered  name 

In  secret  places  of  his  heart. 

"  And  oh  !   I  love  my  love  again 
With  love  incredulous  of  pain, 
Because  I  know  my  beauty's  chain 

Binds  him  so  sure,  binds  him  so  fast. 
I  know  there  is  not  one  swift  bliss 
Which  men  may  know,  that  he  can  miss, 

Or  say  of  it  that  it  is  past." 

This  was  her  song,  who  sat  in  sun  ; 
It  seemed  it  never  would  be  done, 
Unless  its  joy  should  all  outrun 

Slow  speech,  and  fall  of  its  own  weight  ; 
As  fountains  their  sweet  source  recall, 
And,  pausing  sudden,  break  and  fall, 

In  murmur  inarticulate. 

The  other  song,  more  soft,  more  low, 
Out  of  the  shade  came  floating  slow, 
As  autumn  leaves  swim  to  and  fro 


TWO  LOVES.  115 

In  golden  seas  of  sunny  air. 
Her  meek  hands  on  her  bosom  laid, 
Sign  of  the  cross  unwitting  made  ; 

The  woman  was  not  young  nor  fair. 

"  I  love  my  love,"  the  low  song  said, 

Because  his  noble,  kingly  head 

Is  bowed,  while,  with  most  patient  tread, 

He  walks  hard  paths  he  did  not  choose, 
Smiling  where  other  men  would  grieve, 
Heart-glad  if  other  men  receive 

Their  fill  of  joys  which  he  must  lose. 

"  I  see  each  failure  he  must  make, 
Each  step  he  cannot  but  mistake  ; 
And,  weeping  for  his  souPs  clear  sake, 

I  set  my  faith  with  love's  own  seal,  — 
Token  of  all  which  he  might  be, 
Token  of  all  he  is  to  me, 

As  God  and  my  own  heart  reveal. 

"  And  oh  !  I  love  my  love  again, 
With  love  which  is  as  strong  as  pain, 
Because  I  know  that  by  the  chain 

Of  beauty's  bond  I  cannot  bind  ; 
The  sweetest  things  which  make  men's  bliss, 
In  loving  me,  my  love  must  miss, 

In  loving  me,  he  cannot  find. 

"  So,  fearing  lest  I  may  not  feed 
Always  his  utmost  want  and  need, 
In  trust  for  her  who  can  succeed 


n6  VERSES. 

Where  I  must  fail,  his  love's  estate 
I  solemn  hold.     Its  rightful  heir, 
A  woman  younger  and  more  fair, 

Loving  my  love,  I  bide  and  wait." 

This  was  her  song,  who  sat  in  shade, 
Her  meek  hands  on  her  bosom  laid, 
Sign  of  the  cross  unwitting  made; 

She  was  not  young,  she  was  not  fair : 
The  sad  notes  floated  sweet  and  slow, 
As  autumn  leaves  swim  to  and  fro 

On  golden  seas  of  sunny  air. 

"  O  Love  !  "  I  said,  "  which  loveth  best  ? 
O  Love,  dear  Love  !  which  wins  thy  rest  ?  " 
But  Love  was  gone  ;  and,  in  the  west, 

The  sun,  which  gave  one  woman  sun, 
And  gave  the  other  woman  shade, 
Sank  down  ;  on  each  the  cold  night  laid 

Its  silence,  and  each  song  was  done. 


THE   GOOD  SHEPHERD.  117 


THE    GOOD    SHEPHERD. 


ATE  at  night  I  saw  the  shepherd 

Toiling  slow  along  the  hill, 
With  a  smile  of  joy  and  patience, 

Facing  night  winds  strong  and  chill. 
In  his  arms  and  in  his  bosom 
Lay  the  lambs  content  and  still. 

When  the  day  broke,  from  the  valley 

I  looked  up  and  saw  no  more 
Of  the  patient,  smiling  shepherd 

I  had  seen  the  night  before  ; 
But  new  mounds  along  the  hillside 

Lay  in  sunshine,  frozen  hoar  ! 


VERSES, 


LOVE'S   FULFILLING. 

LOVE  is  weak 

Which   counts   the   answers    and    the 

gains, 

Weighs  all  the  losses  and  the  pains, 
And  eagerly  each  fond  word  drains 

A  joy  to  seek. 


When  Love  is  strong, 
It  never  tarries  to  take  heed, 
Or  know  if  its  return  exceed 
Its  gift ;  in  its  sweet  haste  no  greed, 

No  strifes  belong. 

It  hardly  asks 

If  it  be  loved  at  all  ;  to  take 
So  barren  seems,  when  it  can  make 
Such  bliss,  for  the  beloved  sake, 

Of  bitter  tasks. 

Its  ecstasy 

Could  find  hard  death  so  beauteous, 
It  sees  through  tears  how  Christ  loved  us, 
And  speaks,  in  saying  "  I  love  thus," 

No  blasphemy. 

So  much  we  miss 
If  love  is  weak,  so  much  we  gain 


WOOED.  119 

If  love  is  strong,  God  thinks  no  pain 
Too  sharp  or  lasting  to  ordain 
To  teach  us  this. 


WOOED. 
I. 

ITH  voice  all  confident,  I  knelt  and  cried, 
"  Behold  me  at  thy  feet,  O  darling  queen  ! 
I  kiss,  round  lowest  hem,  thy  robe  of 

green  ; 

In  all  thy  temples  I  have  prophesied, 
And  cast  out  devils  in  thy  name.     Confide 
In  me.     Lift  up  the  veil  that  hangs  between 
My  eyes  and  thy  dear  face.     Tell  me  what  mean 
The  voices  of  thy  people." 

Far  and  wide 

The  lovely  queen's  sweet  kingdoms  lie.     I  found 
My  way  to  follow  her  to  utmost  bound 
Of  all ;  and  listened,  listened,  nights  and  days, 
To  every  smallest  sound  on  her  highways  ; 
But  could  not  once  her  golden  sceptre  reach, 
Nor  win  the  secret  of  her  people's  speech. 


120  FEXSES. 

WON. 
II. 

EARIED  at  last,  and  sad,  I  cried,  "Refuse 
Me  what  thou  wilt,  my  queen  !      At  thy 

dear  feet    ; 
Henceforth  I  lie  and  sleep,  and  dream,  and 

eat 

Thy  locusts  and  wild  honey.     Thou  mayst  choose, 
Perhaps,  that  I  the  latchet  of  thy  shoes 
One  day  unfasten.     Ev&r  incomplete 
Leave  my  desire,  too  bold,  to  see  thy  sweet, 
Unveiled  face  ;  to  know  what  words  they  use 
Who  serve  around  thy  throne." 

Lo  !  as  I  lay, 

In  such  surrender,  on  that  summer  day, 
And  sought  not,  stirred  not,  came  the  radiant  queen, 
Sweeping  me  with  her  robe  of  leafy  green, 
And  kissed  me  everywhere  that  kiss  could  go  ; 
While  all  her  royal  train  I  longed  to  know, 
The  swallow  leading,  crowded  up  to  teach 
Me  all  the  secrets  of  their  song  and  speech. 


THOUGHT.  121 


ARIADNE'S    FAREWELL. 

'HE  daughter  of  a  king,  how  should  I  know 
That  there  were  tinsels  wearing  face  of  gold, 
And  worthless  glass,  which  in  the  sunlight's 

hold 

Could  shameless  answer  back  my  diamond's  glow 
With  cheat  of  kindred  fire  ?     The  currents  slow, 
And  deep,  and  strong,  and  stainless,  which  had  rolled 
Through  royal  veins  for  ages,  what  had  told 
To  them,  that  hasty  heat  and  lie  could  show 
As  quick  and  warm  a  red  as  theirs  ? 

Go  free  ! 

The  sun  is  breaking  on  the  sea's  blue  shield 
Its  golden  lances  ;  by  their  gleam  I  see 
Thy  ship's  white  sails.     Go  free,  if  scorn  can  yield 
Thee  freedom  ! 

Then,  alone,  my  love  and  I,  — 
We  both  are  royal ;  we  know  how  to  die. 


THOUGHT. 

MESSENGER,  art  thou  the  king,  or  I  ? 
Thou  dalliest  outside  the  palace  gate 
Till  on  thine  idle  armor  lie  the  late 
And  heavy  dews  :  the  morn's  bright,  scorn 
ful  eye 
Reminds  thee  ;  then,  in  subtle  mockery, 


122  VERSES. 

Thou  smilest  at  the  window  where  I  wait, 
Who  bade  thee  ride  for  life.     In  empty  state 
My  days  go  on,  while  false  hours  prophesy 
Thy  quick  return  ;  at  last,  in  sad  despair, 
I  cease  to  bid  thee,  leave  thee  free  as  air  ; 
When  lo,  thou  stand'st  before  me  glad  and  fleet, 
And  lay'st  undreamed-of  treasures  at  my  feet 
Ah  !  messenger,  thy  royal  blood  to  buy, 
I  am  too  poor.     Thou  art  the  king,  not  I. 


MORDECAI. 

]AKE  friends  with  him  !     He  is  of  royal  line, 
Although  he  sits  in  rags.     Not  all  of  thine 
Array  of  splendor,  pomp  of  high  estate, 
Can  buy  him  from  his  place  within  the  gate, 
The  king's  gate  of  thy  happiness,  where  he, 
Yes,  even  he,  the  Jew,  remaineth  free, 
Never  obeisance  making,  never  scorn 
Betraying  of  thy  silver  and  new-born 
Delight.     Make  friends  with  him,  for  unawares 
The  charmed  secret  of  thy  joys  he  bears  ; 
Be  glad,  so  long  as  his  black  sackcloth,  late 
And  early,  thwarts  thy  sun  ;  for  if  in  hate 
Thou  plottest  for  his  blood,  thy  own  death-cry, 
Not  his,  comes  from  the  gallows,  cubits  high. 


LOCUSTS  AND    WILD  HONEY.  123 


LOCUSTS   AND   WILD    HONEY. 


HOSPITABLE  wilderness, 
I  know  thy  secret  sign  ; 

All  human  welcome  seemeth  less 
To  me  than  thine. 


Such  messengers  to  show  me  where 

Is  water  for  my  feet ; 
Such  perfume  poured  upon  my  hair, 

Costly  and  sweet. 

Such  couch,  such  canopy,  such  floor, 
Such  royal  banquet  spread  ; 

Such  music  through  the  open  door, 
So  little  said. 

So  much  bestowed  and  understood, 
Such  flavored  courtesy, 

And  only  kings  of  unmixed  blood 
For  company. 

Such  rhythmic  tales  of  ancient  lores, 
Of  sweet  and  hidden  things, 

Rehearsed  by  sacred  troubadours 
On  tireless  wings. 

Such  secrets  of  dominion  set 
Unstinted  for  my  choice, 


124  VERSES. 

Such  mysteries,  unuttered  yet, 


Waiting  a  voice. 


O  hospitable  wilderness, 

For  thee  1  long  and  pine  ; 

All  human  welcome  seemeth  less 
To  me  than  thine. 


A  MOTHER'S  FAREWELL  TO  A  VOYAGER. 

" sends  love   and  good-by.      She  thinks  she   sees  the  four 

quarters  of  the  globe  when  she  looks  into  the  faces  of  her  four  children. 
November  2,  1868." 


AIL  east,  sail  west,  O  wanderer, 

In  east,  in  west,  you  cannot  see 

Such  suns  as  rise  and  set  in  these 

Four  little  faces  round  my  knee. 


Blue  as  the  north  my  first-born's  eyes  ; 

Her  yellow  hair  hides  brow  of  snow  ; 
Like  conquerors  from  the  North  she  brought 

The  sweet  subjection  mothers  know. 

Glad  and  sad,  and  changed  in  an  hour, 
My  next  girl's  face  is  tropic  sea, 

Where  laden  winds,  whose  secret  none 
Can  tell,  sweep  on  unceasingly. 


"DROPPED  DEAD:'  125 

Grave  and  searching,  with  hidden  fire, 
My  black-eyed  boy  kneels  like  a  priest ; 

I  know  that,  looking  where  he  looks, 
We  shall  see  the  "  Star  in  the  East." 

No  name  as  yet  my  baby  has, 

Her  rosy  hands  are  just  uncurled  ; 

But  with  wet  eyes  we  kiss  her  cheeks, 

And  thank  God  for  our  sweet  "  new  world." 

Sail  east,  sail  west,  dear  wanderer  ! 

God  cares  for  you  and  cares  for  me  ; 
He  knows  for  which  of  us  'twas  best 

To  stay  with  children  round  her  knee. 

STEAMSHIP  CHINA,  November  13,  1868. 


"DROPPED  DEAD." 

LL  royal  strengths  in  life,  until  the  end, 
Will  bear  themselves  still  royally.    Degrees 
Of  dying  they  know  not :  the  muddy  lees 
They  will   not  drink :    no   man   shall   see 

them  bend 

Or  slacken  in  the  storm  :  no  man  can  lend 
To  them.     Those  feeble  souls  who  crouch  on  knees 
That  fail,  and  cling  to  shadows  of  lost  ease, 
Death  tortures.     But,  as  kings  to  kings  may  send, 
He  challenges  the  strong. 

Such  death  as  this 


126  VERSES. 

O'ertakes  great  love  ;  a  lesser  love  will  miss 
Such  stroke  ;  may  dwindle  painfully  away, 
And  fade,  and  simply  cease  to  breathe,  some  day. 
But  great  loves,  to  the  last,  have  pulses  red ; 
All  great  loves  that  have  ever  died  dropped  dead. 


PRESENCE. 

NAMELESS  thing !  which  art  and  art  not; 

spell 

Whose  bond  can  bind  the  powers  of  the  air, 
Compelling  them  thy  face  to  hide  or  bear. 
O  voice  !  which,  bringing  not  the  faintest  swell 
Of  sound,  canst  in  the  air  so  crowd  and  dwell 
That  all  sounds  die.    O  sight!  which  needst  no  share 
Of  sun,  which  sav'st  blind  eyes  from  their  despair, 
O  touch  !  which  dost  not  touch,  and  yet  canst  tell 
To  waiting  flesh,  by  thy  caress  complete, 
The  whole  of  love,  till  veins  grow  red  with  heat ; 
O  life  of  life  !  to  which  graves  are  not  girt 
With  terror,  and  all  death  can  bring  no  hurt. 
O  mystery  of  blessing  !  never  lift 
Thy  veil !  our  one  inalienable  giftl 


TRUTH.  127 


POLAR   DAYS. 

some  poor  piteous  Lapp.,  who  under  firs 
Which  bend  and  break  with  load  of  arctic 

snows 
Has   crept   and   crouched   to   watch  when 

crimson  glows 

Begin,  feels  in  his  veins  the  thrilling  stirs 
Of  warmer  life,  e'en  while  his  fear  deters 
His  trust;  and  when  the  orange  turns  to  rose 
In  vain,  and  widening  to  the  westward  goes 
The  ruddy  beam  and  fades,  heartsick  defers 
His  hope,  and  shivers  through  one  more  long  night 
Of  sunless  day  ;  — 

So  watching,  one  by  one, 

The  faintest  glimmers  of  the  morn's  gray  light, 
The  sleepless  exiled  heart  waits  for  the  bright 
Full  day,  and  hopes  till  all  its  hours  are  done, 
That  the  next  one  will  bring  its  love,  its  sun. 


TRUTH. 

TRUTH,  art  thou  relentless?     Wilt  thou 

rest 

Never  ?     From  solitude  to  solitude 
Eternally  wilt  thou  escape  ?     Thy  good 

And  beauty  luring  us  to  fatal  quest, 

Foredoomed  to  endless  loss  ? 


128  VERSES. 

0  royal  guest 

Of  Nature's  centuries,  no  spot  so  rude, 
So  void,  thy  secret  cannot  there  elude 
Our  grasp  ;  no  thing  too  subtle  to  attest 
Her  royal  sheltering  ;  from  spheres  to  spheres 
Of  light,  through  the  incalculable  years  ; 
From  force  to  force,  through    rock,  through   sound, 

through  flame, 

Our  worship  wrests  but  echo  of  thy  name, 
And  builds  at  last,  with  patient  stone,  and  sod, 
And  tears,  its  altar  "  to  the  unknown  God." 


HER   EYES. 

":HAT  they  are  brown,  no  man  will  dare  to 

say 
He  knows.     And  yet  I  think  that  no  man's 

look 

Ever  those  depths  of  light  and  shade  forsook, 
Until  their  gentle  pain  warned  him  away. 
Of  all  sweet  things  I  know  but  one  which  may 
Be  likened  to  her  eyes. 

When,  in  deep  nook 

Of  some  green  field,  the  water  of  a  brook 
Makes  lingering,  whirling  eddy  in  its  way, 
Round  soft  drowned  leaves  ;  and  in  a  flash  of  sun 
They  turn  to  gold,  until  the  ripples  run 


THE  WALLFLOWER  OF  ROME,          129 

Now  brown,  now  yellow,  changing  as  by  some 
Swift  spell. 

I  know  not  with  what  body  come 
The  saints.     But  this  I  know,  my  Paradise 
Will  mean  the  resurrection  of  her  eyes. 


THE  WALL-FLOWER   OF   THE   RUINS   OF 
ROME. 

GOLDEN-WINGED,  on  guard  at  crum 
bled  gate 

And  fallen  wall  of  emperors  and  kings, 
Whose  very  names  are  now  forgotten  things, 
Thou  standest  here,  in  faithfulness  to  wait 
The  centuries  through,  and  of  the  ancient  state 
Keep  up  the  semblance.     Never  footstep  rings 
Across  the  stones  ;  and  yet,  if  sun  but  flings 
One  ray,  a  gleam,  like  gleam  of  burnished  plate 
On  mailed  men,  thy  hands  have  lit,  and  sent 
Along  the  gray  and  tottering  battlement, 
And  flung  out  yellow  banners,  pricked  with  red, 
Which  need  not  shame  a  royal  house  to  spread. 
Ah,  golden-winged,  the  whole  of  thy  deep  spell 
I  cannot  fathom,  and  thou  wilt  not  tell. 


1 30 


SHADOWS   OF   BIRDS. 


N  darkened  air,  alone  with  pain, 
I  lay.     Like  links  of  heavy  chain 
The  minutes  sounded,  measuring  day, 
And  slipping  lifelessly  away. 
Sudden  across  my  silent  room 
A  shadow  darker  than  its  gloom 
Swept  swift ;  a  shadow  slim  and  small 
Which  poised  and  darted  on  the  wall, 
And  vanished  quickly  as  it  came  ; 
A  shadow,  yet  it  lit  like  flame  ; 
A  shadow,  yet  I  heard  it  sing, 
And  heard  the  rustle  of  its  wing, 
Till  every  pulse  with  joy  was  stirred; 
It  was  the  shadow  of  a  bird  ! 

Only  the  shadow  !     Yet  it  made 

Full  summer  even-where  it  strayed  ; 

And  every  bird  I  ever  knew 

Back  and  forth  in  the  summer  flew  ; 

And  breezes  wafted  over  me 

The  scent  of  every  flower  and  tree  ; 

Till  I  forgot  the  pain  and  gloom 

And  silence  of  my  darkened  room. 

Now,  in  the  glorious  open  air, 

I  w-*ch  the  birds  fly  here  and  there  ; 


GLIMPSES.  131 

And  wonder,  as  each  swift  wing  cleaves 
The  sky,  if  some  poor  soul  that  grieves 
In  lonely,  darkened,  silent  walls 
Will  catch  the  shadow  as  it  falls  ! 


GLIMPSES. 


S  when  on  some  great  mountain-peak  we 

stand, 

In  breathless  awe  beneath  its  dome  of  sky, 
Whose  multiplied  horizons  seem  to  lie 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  earthly  sea  and  land, 
We  find  the  circled  space  too  vast,  too  grand, 
And  soothe  our  thoughts  with  restful  memory 
Of  sudden  sunlit  glimpses  we  passed  by 
Too  quickly,  in  our  feverish  demand 
To  reach  the  height,  — 

So,  darling,  when  the  brink 
Of  highest  heaven  we  reach  at  last,  I  think 
Even  that  great  gladness  will  grow  yet  more  glad, 
As  we,  with  eyes  that  are  no  longer  sad, 
Look  back,  while  Life's  horizons  slowly  sink, 
To  some  swift  moments  which  on  earth  we  had. 


I32  VERSES. 


TO  A.  C.  L.  B. 

HY  house  hath  gracious  freedom,  like  the 

air 

Of  open  fields  ;  its  silence  hath  a  speech 
Of  royal  welcome  to  the  friends  who  reach 
Its  threshold,  and  its  upper  chambers  bear, 
Above  their  doors  such  spells,  that,  entering  there 
And  laying  off  the  dusty  garments,  each 
Soul  whispers  to  herself:  "'T  were  like  a  breach 
Of  reverence  in  a  temple  could  I  dare 
Here  speak  untruth,  here  wrong  my  inmost  thought. 
Here  I  grow  strong  and  pure  ;  here  I  may  yield, 
Without  shamefacedness,  the  little  brought 
From  out  my  poorer  life,  and  stand  revealed, 
And  glad,  and  trusting,  in  the  sweet  and  rare 
And  tender  presence  which  hath  filled  this  air." 


SNOW-DROPS    IN   ITALY. 

LOYAL  vestals  in  this  land  of  sun, 

Your  white  cheeks  flush  not,  and  your  virgin 

eyes 

Vouchsafe  no  lifted  look.     In  vain  the  skies 
Are  red  and  pale  with  passion  ;  swift  clouds  run 
And  beckon  ;  warm  winds  call  ;  long  days  are  done 
And  nights  are  spent,  and  still  by  no  surprise, 
No  lure  can  ye  be  tempted  1 


DISTANCE.  133 

O,  where  lies 

The  spell  by  which  your  gentleness  can  shun 
These  heats  ?     Is  it  your  hidden  zone  of  gold  ? 
Or  in  the  emerald  whose  glimmers  show, 
Scarce  show,  beneath  your  white  robes'  inner  fold  ? 
Vain  question  !     Still  your  calm  bright  peace  ye  hold  ; 
And  yet  ye  set  my  pulses  all  aglow 
With  loyalty  like  yours  to  lands  of  snow. 


DISTANCE. 

SUBTILE  secret  of  the  air, 
Making  the  things  that  are  not,  fair 
Beyond  the  things  that  we  can  reach 
And  name  with  names  of  clumsy  speech  ; 
By  shadow- worlds  of  purple  haze 
The  sunniest  of  sunny  days 
Outweighing  in  our  hearts'  delight ; 
Opening  the  eyes  of  blinded  sight; 
Holding  an  echo  in  such  hold, 
Bidding  a  hope  such  wings  unfold, 
That  present  sounds  and  sights  between 
Can  come  and  go,  unheard,  unseen,  — 
O  subtile  secret  of  the  air, 
Heaven  itself  is  heavenly  fair 
By  help  of  thee  !     The  saints'  good  days 
Are  good,  because  the  good  Lord  lays 
No  bound  of  shore  along  the  sea 
Of  beautiful  Eternity. 


134  VERSES. 


WHEN    THE    KINGS    COME. 


HEN  the  Kings  come  to  royal  hunting  seats 
|  To  find  the  royal  joys  of  summer  days, 
j  The  servants  on  the  lofty  watch-tower  raise 
A  banner,  whose  swift  token  warning  greets 
The   country.      Threatening   stern,   an   armed   man 

meets 

Each  stranger,  who,  by  pleasant  forest-ways, 
All  unawares,  has  rambled  till  he  strays 
Too  close  to  paths  where,  in  the  noonday  heats, 
The  King,  uncrowned,  lies  down  to  sleep.     Such  law 
As  this  the  human  soul  sets  heart  and  face 
And  hand,  when  once  its  King  has  come.     In  awe, 
And  gladness  too,  all  men  behold  what  grace 
Such  royal  presence  to  the  eye  can  bring, 
And  how  the  heart  and  hand  can  guard  their  King. 


COMING   ACROSS. 

VERY  sail  is  full  set,  and  the  sky 

And  the  sea  blaze  with  light, 
And  the  moon  mid  her  virgins  glides  on 

As  St.  Ursula  might; 
And  the  throb  of  the  pulse  never  stops, 
In  the  heart  of  the  ship, 


THE    TEACHER.  135 

As  her  measures  of  water  and  fire 

She  drinks  down  at  a  sip. 
Yet  I  never  can  think,  as  I  lie,        (   UN  J 

And  so  wearily  toss, 
That  by  saint,  or  by  star,  or  by  ship, 

I  am  coming  across  ; 

But  by  light  which  I  know  in  dear  eyes 

That  are  bent  on  the  sea, 
And  the  touch  I  remember  of  hands 

That  are  waiting  for  me. 
By  the  light  of  the  eyes  I  could  come, 

If  the  stars  should  all  fail ; 
And  I  think,  if  the  ship  should  go  down, 

That  the  hands  would  prevail. 
Ah  !  my  darlings,  you  never  will  know 

How  I  pined  in  the  loss 
Of  you  all,  and  how  breathless  and  glad 

I  am  coming  across. 

STEAMSHIP  RUSSIA,  January  22,  1870. 


THE  TEACHER. 

HE   people   listened,   with    short,    indrawn 

breath, 

And  eyes  that  were  too  steady  set  for  tears. 
This  one  man's  speech  rolled  off  great  loads 

of  fears 
From  every  heart,  as  sunlight  scattereth 


136  VERSES. 

The  clouds ;  hard  doubts,  which  had  been  born  of 

death, 

Shone  out  as  rain-drops  shine  when  rainbow  clears 
The  air.     "  O  teacher,"  then  I  said,  "  thy  years, 
Are  they  not  joy  ?     Each  word  that  issueth 
From  out  thy  lips,  doth  it  return  to  bless 
Thy  own  heart  many  fold  ?  " 

With  weariness 

Of  tone  he  answered,  and  almost  with  scorn, 
"  I  am,  of  all,  most  lone  in  loneliness  ; 
I  starve  with  hunger  treading  out  their  corn ; 
I  die  of  travail  while  their  souls  are  born." 


DECORATION   DAY. 


HE  Eastern  wizards  do  a  wondrous  thing, 
Which  travellers,  having  seen,  scarce  dare 

to  tell : 

Dropping  a  seed  in  earth,  by  subtle  spell 
Of  hidden  heat  they  force  the  germ  to  spring 
To  instant  life  and  growth  ;  no  faltering 
'Twixt  leaf  and  flower  and  fruit ;  they  rise  and  swell 
To  perfect  shape  and  size,  as  if  there  fell 
Upon  them  all  which  seasons  hold  and  bring. 
But  Love  far  greater  magic  shows  to-day  : 
Lifting  its  feeble  hands,  which  can  but  reach 


DECORATION  DAY.  137 

The  hands-breadth  up,  it  stretches  all  the  way 
From  earth  to  heaven,  and,  triumphant,  each 
Sweet  wilting  blossom  sets,  before  it  dies, 
Full  in  the  sight  of  smiling  angels'  eyes. 


n. 

But,  ah  !  the  graves  which  no  man  names  or  knows; 
Uncounted  graves,  which  never  can  be  found  ; 
Graves  of  the  precious  "  missing,"  where  no  sound 
Of  tender  weeping  will  be  heard,  where  goes 
No  loving  step  of  kindred.     O,  how  flows 
And  yearns  our  thought  to  them  !     More  holy  ground 
Of  graves  than  this,  we  say,  is  that  whose  bound 
Is  secret  till  eternity  disclose 
Its  sign. 

But  Nature  knows  her  wilderness  ; 
There  are  no  "missing"  in  her  numbered  ways. 
In  her  great  heart  is  no  forgetfulness. 
Each  grave  she  keeps  she  will  adorn,  caress. 
We  cannot  lay  such  wreath's  as  Summer  lays, 
And  all  her  days  are  Decoration  Days  ! 


138  VERSES. 

A  THIRTEENTH-CENTURY   PARABLE. 
HEN  good  Saint  Louis  reigned  in  France  as 


king, 

And  William,  Bishop  of  Paris,  ministering 
To  all  the  churches,  kept  them  pure  and  glad, 


There  came  one  day  a  learned  man,  who  had 

Journeyed  from  distant  provinces  to  find 

His  Bishop  and  unload  his  burdened  mind. 

Entering  the  Bishop's  presence,  he  began 

To  speak :  but  sobs  choked  all  his  voice  ;  tears  ran 

Like  rain  from  out  his  eyes,  and  no  words  came 

To  tell  his  grief.     Then  said  the  Bishop : 

"  Shame 

Not  thyself  so  deeply,  Master  :  no  man 
So  sins  but  that  the  gracious  Jesus  can 
Forgive  an  hundred  thousand  fold  more  guilt 
Than  his,  and  cleanse  it  by  his  dear  blood  spilt." 
"  I  tell  you,  Sire,"  the  Master  said,  "  I  must 
Forever  weep  :   I  am  accursed.     I  trust 
Not  in  the  holy  altar-sacrament, 
As  taught  to  us  ;   I  cannot  but  dissent 
From  all  the  Church  doth  say  of  it :  and  yet 
I  know  my  doubts  are  but  temptations  set 
By  Satan's  self,  to  sink  my  soul  to  hell. 
O  Sire,  I  am  a  wretched  Infidel." 
Then  said  the  gentle  Bishop  : 

"  This  one  thing 
Tell  me,  O  honest  Master,  do  they  bring 


THIRTEENTH-CENTURY  PARABLE.      139 

Thee  pleasure,  these  dark  doubts  ?" 

"  O,  no  !  my  Sire," 

The  weeping  Master  said  :   "  they  burn  like  fire 
Within  my  bones." 

"  And  could  thy  lips  to  speak 
Thy  doubts  be  bought  by  gold  ?     And  would'st  thou 

seek 
To  shake  a  brother's  faith  ?  " 

"  I,  Sire  !  "  exclaimed 

The  Master.     "  I  !     I  would  be  bruised  and  maimed, 
And  torn  from  limb  to  limb,  ere  I  would  say 
Such  words." 

Then  said  the  Bishop,  smiling  :  "  Lay 
Aside  now  for  a  space  thy  grief  and  fear, 
And  listen.     Soon  my  meaning  will  appear, 
Though  it  be  strangely  hid  at  first  below 
My  words. 

Thou  know'st  that  war  is  raging  now 
Between  the  King  of  England  and  of  France  ; 
Thou  know'st  that  of  our  castles  greatest  chance 
Of  loss  has  La  Rochelle,  there  in  Poitou, 
Lying  so  near  the  border.     If  to  you 
The  King  had  given  La  Rochelle  to  hold, 
And  unto  me  —  no  less  true  man  and  bold, 
Perhaps  —  the  Castle  of  Laon  to  keep, 
Far  in  the  heart  of  France,  where  I  might  sleep 
All  day,  all  night,  unharmed,  if  so  I  chose, — 
So  safe  beyond  the  reach  of  all  our  foes 
Lies  Laon,  —  when  the  war  is  ended,  who 
Ought  from  the  King  to  have  the  most  thanks  ? 

You, 


140  VERSES. 

Who  La  Rochelle  had  saved  by  bloody  fights, 
Or  I,  who  spent  in  Laon  peaceful  nights  ?  " 
"  In  faith,  Sire,  I,  \vho  guarded  La  Rochelle  !  " 
The  wondering  Master  cried. 

"  So,  then,  I  tell 

Thee,"  said  the  Bishop,  in  most  gentle  tone, 
"  My  heart  is  like  the  Castle  of  Laon. 
Temptations,  doubts,  cannot  my  soul  assail. 
Therefore,  I  say  that  thou,  who  dost  prevail 
Against  such  foes  of  Satan's  mustering, 
Art  four  times  pleasing  to  the  Heavenly  King, 
Where  I  am  once  ;  and  thy  good  fortress,  kept, 
Shall  win  thee  glory  such  as  saints  have  wept 
To  win  !     Go,  joyful !     Put  thy  sorrow  by. 
Thou  art  far  dearer  to  the  Lord  than  I." 
Scarce  dared  the  Master  trust  such  words  as  these ; 
But  silent,  grateful,  fell  upon  his  knees 
Until  the  Bishop  blessed  him.     Then  he  went 
Away  in  solemn  wonder  and  content. 

They  lie  in  graves,  the  saints  who  knew  this  tale, 

The  King,  the  Bishop,  and  the  Seneschal, 

And  he  who  doubted,  —  rest  their  souls  in  peace  !  — 

And  even  mention  of  their  names  men  cease 

To  make.     But,  knowing  all,  as  they  must  know, 

Of  God,  who  roam  his  universes  through, 

Untrammelled  spirits,  they  could  tell  to  men 

To-day  no  deeper  truth  than  was  told  then, 

To  cheer  and  comfort  him  who  fighteth  well 

To  save  a  heart  besieged  like  La  Rochelle. 


FORM.  141 


FORM. 

HIDDEN  secret  of  all  things  ! 
Thy  triumph,  most  triumphant,  brings 
No  sound  of  syllable  of  name 
To  mark  the  law  by  which  it  came  ; 
The  subtle  point  of  difference, 
Which  made  the  joy  of  joy  intense, 
The  grief  of  grief  too  great  to  bear, 
Beauty  than  beauty's  self  more  fair. 

No  skill  does*  more,  at  best,  than  work 
Blindly,  in  hope  to  find  where  lurk 
Thy  undiscovtied  charm  and  spell  ; 
No  prophecies  thine  hour  foretell ; 
No  hindrances  chine  hour  avert ; 
No  purpose  brings  thee  good  or  hurt ; 
Thy  life  knows  not  of  wish  or  will  ; 
Inherent  growths  thy  growth  fulfil. 

No  man  dared  say  to  curve,  to  line, 
"Be  beautiful,  by  word  of  mine  ! 
I  crown  thee  lovely  on  the  earth  ! 
I  am  thy  Lord  of  life  and  birth." 
Before  all  men  the  line,  the  curve, 
Stood  suddenly,  and  said  : 

"  Preserve 

What  joy  ye  can.     O  blind  of  eye ! 
Behold  us  once  before  ye  die  !  " 


VERSES. 

O  hidden  secret  of  all  things  ! 
O  kingdom  earlier  than  kings  ! 
Before  earth  was,  yea,  and  before 
The  Heavens,  Eternity  forbore 
All  haste,  waiting  each  sign  and  bond, 
For  seal  of  thee,  to  set  beyond 
All  time's  impatience  the  decree 
And  record  of  thy  sovereignty !  " 


MY   HICKORY   FIRE. 

HELPLESS  body  of  hickory  tree, 
What  do  I  burn,  in  burning  thee  ? 
Summers  of  sun,  winters  of  snow, 
Springs  full  of  sap's  resistless  flow ; 
All  past  year's  joys  of  garnered  fruits  ; 
All  this  year's  purposed  buds  and  shoots  ; 
Secrets  of  fields  of  upper  air, 
Secrets  which  stars  and  planets  share  ; 
Light  of  such  smiles  as  broad  skies  fling ; 
Sound  of  such  tunes  as  wild  winds  sing  ; 
Voices  which  told  where  gay  birds  dwelt, 
Voices  which  told  where  lovers  knelt ;  — 
O  strong  white  body  of  hickory  tree, 
How  dare  I  burn  all  these,  in  thee  ? 

But  I  too  bring,  as  to  a  pyre, 
Sweet  things  to  feed  thy  funeral  fire  : 
Memories  waked  by  thy  deep  spell ; 
Faces  of  fears  and  hopes  which  fell ; 


MY  HICKORY   TREE. 

Faces  of  darlings  long  since  dead,  — 

Smiles  that  they  smiled,  and  words  they  said 

Like  living  shapes  they  come  and  go, 

Lit  by  the  mounting  name's  red  glow. 

But  sacredest  of  all,  O  tree, 

Thou  hast  the  hour  my  love  gave  me. 

Only  thy  rhythmic  silence  stirred 

While  his  low-whispered  tones  I  heard  ; 

By  thy  last  gleam  of  flickering  light 

I  saw  his  cheek  turn  red  from  white  ; 

O  cold  gray  ashes,  side  by  side 

With  yours,  that  hour's  sweet  pulses  died  i 

But  thou,  brave  tree,  how  do  I  know 
That  through  these  fires  thou  dost  not  go 
As  in  old  days  the  martyrs  went 
Through  fire  which  was  a  sacrament  ? 
How  do  I  know  thou  dost  not  wait 
In  longing  for  thy  next  estate  ?  — 
Estate  of  higher,  nobler  place, 
Whose  shapes  no  man  can  use  or  trace. 
How  do  I  know,  if  I  could  reach 
The  secret  meaning  of  thy  speech, 
But  I  thy  song  of  praise  should  hear, 
Ringing  triumphant,  loud,  and  clear, — 
The  waiting  angels  could  discern. 
And  token  of  thy  heaven  learn  ? 
O  glad,  freed  soul  of  hickory  tree, 
Wherever  thine  eternity, 
Bear  thou  with  thee  that  hour's  dear  name, 
Made  pure,  like  thee,  by  rites  of  flame  ! 


*44  VERSES, 


REVENUES. 


SMILE  to  hear  the  little  kings 
When  they  count  up  their  precious  things, 
And  send  their  vaunting  lists  abroad, 
Of  what  their  kingdoms  can  afford. 
One  boasts  his  corn,  and  one  his  wine, 
And  one  his  gold  and  silver  fine  ; 
One  by  an  army,  one  by  a  fleet, 
Keeps  neighbor  kings  beneath  his  feet ; 
One  sets  his  claim  to  highest  place 
On  looms  of  silk  and  looms  of  lace  *, 
And  one  shows  pictures  of  old  saints 
In  lifelike  tints  of  wondrous  paints  ; 
And  one  has  quarries  of  white  stone 
From  which  rare  statue  shapes  have  grown ; 
And  so,  by  dint  of  wealth  or  grace, 
Striving  to  keep  the  highest  place, 
They  count  and  show  their  precious  things, 
The  little  race  of  little  kings. 

"  O  little  kings  !  "  I  long  to  say, 
"  Who  counts  God's  revenues  to-day  ? 
Who  knows  on  all  the  hills  and  coasts 
Names  of  the  captains  of  his  hosts  ? 
What  eye  has  seen  the  half  of  gold 
His  smallest  mine  his  in  its  hold? 
What  figures  tell  one  summer's  cost 
Of  fabrics  which  are  torn  and  tost 


REVENUES.  145 

To  clothe  his  myriads  of  trees  ? 
Who  reckons,  in  the  sounding  seas, 
The  shining  corals,  wrought  and  graved, 
With  which  his  ocean  floors  are  paved  ? 
Who  knows  the  numbers  or  the  names 
Of  colors  in  his  sunset  flames  ? 
What  table  measures,  marking  weight, 
What  chemistries  can  estimate 
One  single  banquet  for  his  birds  ?" 
Then,  mocked  by  all  which  utmost  words 
And  utmost  thoughts  can  frame  or  reach, 
My  heart  finds  tears  its  only  speech. 
In  ecstasy,  part  joy,  part  pain, 
Where  fear  and  wonder  half  restrain 
Love's  gratitude,  I  lay  my  ear 
Close  to  the  ground,  and  listening  hear 
This  noiseless,  ceaseless,  boundless  tide 
Of  earth's  great  wealth,  on  every  side, 
Rolling  and  pouring  up  to  break 
At  feet  of  God,  who  will  not  take 
Nor  keep  among  his  heavenly  things 
So  much  as  tithe  of  all  it  brings  ; 
But  instant  turns  the  costly  wave, 
Gives  back  to  earth  all  that  it  gave, 
Spends  all  his  universe  of  power 
And  pomp  to  deck  one  single  hour 
Of  time,  and  then  in  largess  free, 
Unasked,  bestows  the  hour  on  me. 


J46  I* EASES. 


A   BURIAL  SERVICE. 

O  this  burying 
We  come  alone,  —  you  and  I,  —  not  with 

our  dead, 

But  with  our  dearest  living  ;  O,  could  mor 
tal  tread 
Be  unfaltering ! 


God  knows  how  we  love  it, 
This  we  have  come  to  bury  ;  the  eyes  smile,  —  life's 

best  wine 

The  hands  hold  out  !     Darling,  shall  it  be  yours,  or 
mine, 
To  lay  the  first  sod  above  it  ? 

But  no  decaying 

Can  reach  it  in  this  sepulchre,  whose  stone 
Our  hearts  must  make  !  To  an  exceeding  glory  grown, 

This  grief,  outweighing, 

Not  even  regretting, 

It  will  await  us  !     Thank  God,  not  being  sown 
In  any  dishonor,  it  will  await  its  own, 

Never  forgetting  ! 

To  Christ's  protection 

Now  let  us  leave  it,  —  the  tomb  and  the  key  !     He 
Will  remember  us,  if  there  may  ever  be 

Resurrection  ! 


A  PARABLE.  147 


A   PARABLE. 

AR  in  the  wood  I  found  a  vine,  so  sweet 
Of  flower  and  leaf  that,  loving  it,  I  stayed 
To  learn  its  secret.     Thick  around  its  feet 
Grew  thorny  briers,  and   tangled  sapling: 

made 

On  every  side  of  it  too  dark  a  shade. 
One  tendril  by  a  dead  branch  held.     The  rest 
Were  folded  like  proud  arms  upon  its  breast. 

The  rough  wind  beat  it  down  ;  it  did  not  break, 
But,  lying  low  until  the  storm  went  by, 
Lifted  its  head  again.     Still  it  would  take 
No  help  ;  but,  shaking  off  with  scornful  eye 
The  dust,  rose  slowly,  looking  to  the  sky, 
Borne  up  by  hidden  forces  of  its  own, 
And  stood  again  erect,  a  vine,  alone 

Far  in  the  wood  I  whispered  then,  afraid 

The  question  showed  not  all  my  love,  "  O  vine, 

Brave  vine,  so  sweet  and  yet  so  strong,  what  made 

It  easy  unto  thee  ?     No  sun  can  shine 

To  warm  thee  in  this  cold,  unwholesome  shade. 

Why  standest  thou  apart  from  all  the  rest, 

Thy  slender  proud  arms  folded  on  thy  breast  ?  " 

Filling  the  wood,  this  subtile  whisper  then 
My  reverent  listening  heard: 


148  VERSES. 

"  My  love,  the  Oak, 

Has  died.     Never  before  his  name  to  men 
Who,  idly  questioning,  passed  by,  I  spoke. 
But  thou,  —  thou  lov'st  like  me  ;  thy  secret  woke 
My  own.     Thou  know'st  to  a  less  lordly  thing 
The  tendrils  torn  from  oaks  will  never  cling." 


FRIENDS. 

TO 

A.   E.    P. 

E  rode  a  day,  from  east,  from  west, 
To  meet.     A  year  had  done  its  best, 
By  absence,  and  by  loss  of  speech, 
To  put  beyond  the  other's  reach 
Each  heart  and  life  ;  but,  drawing  nigh, 
<k  Ah  !  it  is  you  !  "     "  Yes,  it  is  I  !  " 
We  said  ;  and  love  had  been  blasphemed 
And  slain  in  each  had  either  deemed 
Need  of  more  words,  or  joy  more  plain 
When  eyes  had  looked  in  eyes  again  : 
Ah  friendship,  stronger  in  thy  might 
Than  time  and  space,  as  faith  than  sight ! 
Rich  festival  with  thy  red  wine 
My  friend  and  I  will  keep  in  courts  divine  1 


MARCH.  149 


THE   ROYAL  BEGGAR. 

MARVEL    strange!    outside    the    palace 

doors, 

And  begging  humbly  from  the  palace  stores, 
He  stands  and  waits  ;  and  when  a  paltry 

crust 

Is  flung,  he  stoops  and  picks  it  from  the  dust, 
And,  smiling  through  his  tears,  clasps  to  his  breast 
The  niggard  boon  ;  and,  for  the  moment  blest 
And  fed,  is  grateful,  though  the  ruby  wine 
And  milk  and  honey  which,  by  right  divine, 
Are  his,  his  only,  and  the  crown  of  gold 
God  wrought  for  him,  are  to  his  rightful  hold 
Refused  ! 

Ah  Love,  dear  Love,  nowhere  on  earth 
Wanders  uncrowned  thy  peer  of  royal  birth  ! 
Ah  Love,  great  Love  !      Denied,  thrust  out  in  vain, 
Kingly,  though  beggared  !    Blest  through  all  the  pain  ! 


MARCH. 

-^p?1  E  X  E  AT  H  the  sheltering  walls  the  thin  snow 


winter's     skeleton,    left     bleaching, 
white, 

Disjointed,  crumbling,  on  unfriendly  fields. 
The  inky  pools  surrender  tardily 


150  VERSES. 

At  noon,  to  patient  herds,  a  frosty  drink 

From  jagged  rims  of  ice  ;  a  subtle  red 

Of  life  is  kindling  every  twig  and  stalk 

Of  lowly  meadow  growths  ;  the  willows  wrap 

Their  stems  in  furry  white  ;  the  pines  grow  gray 

A  little  in  the  biting  wind  ;  midday 

Brings  tiny  burrowed  creatures,  peeping  out 

Alert  for  sun. 

Ah  March  !  we  know  thou  art 
Kind-hearted,  spite  of  ugly  looks  and  threats, 
And,  out  of  sight,  art  nursing  April's  violets  ! 


APRIL. 


OBINS  call  robins  in  tops  of  trees  ; 

Doves  follow  doves,  with  scarlet  feet ; 
Frolicking  babies,  sweeter  than  these, 
Crowd  green   corners    where    highways 
meet. 


Violets  stir  and  arbutus  wakes, 
Claytonia's  rosy  bells  unfold  ; 

Dandelion  through  the  meadow  makes 
A  royal  road,  with  seals  of  gold. 

Golden  and  snowy  and  red  the  flowers, 
Golden,  snowy,  and  red  in  vain  ; 

Robins  call  robins  through  sad  showers  ; 
The  white  dove's  feet  are  wet  with  rain. 


MAY.  151 

For  April  sobs  while  these  are  so  glad, 
April  weeps  while  these  are  so  gay,  — 

Weeps  like  a  tired  child  who  had, 
Playing  with  flowers,  lost  its  way. 


MAY. 

HE  voice  of  one  who  goes  before  to  make 
The  paths  of  June  more  beautiful,  is  thine, 
Sweet  May  !  Without  an  envy  of  her  crown 
And  bridal  ;  patient  stringing  emeralds 
And  shining  rubies  for  the  brows  of  birch 
And  maple  ;  flinging  garlands  of  pure  white 
And  pink,  which  to  their  bloom  add  prophecy ; 
Gold  cups  o'er-filling  on  a  thousand  hills 
And  calling  honey-bees  ;  out  of  their  sleep 
The  tiny  summer  harpers  with  bright  wings 
Awaking,  teaching  them  their  notes  for  noon  ;  — 
O  May,  sweet-voiced  one,  going  thus  before, 
Forever  June  may  pour  her  warm  red  wine 
Of  life  and  passion,  —  sweeter  days  are  thine  ! 


152  VERSES. 


THE    SIMPLE    KING. 

HE  king,  the  royal,  simple  king, 
Whom  in  bold  lovingness  I  sing, 
Will  not  be  buried  when  he  dies, 
As  kings  are  buried.     Where  he  lies, 

No  regal  monument  will  show  ; 

No  worldly  pilgrim-feet  will  go  ; 

No  heraldry,  with  blazoned  sign, 

Will  keep  the  record  of  his  line. 

No  man  will  know  his  kingdom's  bound ; 

No  man  his  subjects'  grief  will  sound. 

His  crown  will  not  lie  low  with  him  ; 

His  crown  will  never  melt  nor  dim. 

This  king,  this  royal,  simple  king, 

Whose  kingliness  I  kneel  to  sing, 

Looks  on  all  other  men  with  eyes 

Which  are  as  calm  as  suns  that  rise 

Alike,  and  bring  an  equal  gain 

To  just  and  unjust.     Like  soft  rain 

His  gentle  kindliness,  but  deep 

As  waters,  in  which  oceans  keep 

Their  treasures.     Silent,  warm,  and  white 

As  mid-day  is  his  love's  great  light ; 

But  in  its  faithful  summer  saves 

For  every  smallest  flower  that  waves 

Such  shelter  that  it  cannot  die 

Nor  droop,  while  love's  fierce  noons  pass  by. 


THE  SIMPLE  KING.  153 

This  king,  this  royal,  simple  king, 

Whose  kingliness  I  cannot  sing, 

Speaks  words  which  are  decrees,  because 

They  come  as  questions,  not  as  laws. 

Himself  devoutest  worshipper 

At  Truth's  great  shrine,  his  least  acts  stir 

The  people's  hearts,  as  when  of  old 

The  High  Priest,  lifting  veil  of  gold, 

Came  from  the  ark's  most  sacred  place, 

And  only  by  his  shining  face 

Revealed  to  them  without  that  he 

Had  seen  the  Godhead  bodily. 

Men  serve  him  ;  but  while  they  obey 

Feel  no  oppression  in  the  sway. 

His  royal  hand  is  burdened  too ; 

No  load  of  theirs  to  him  is  new  ; 

No  sting  or  stigma  in  a  bond 

To  him  whose  vision  looks  beyond 

All  names  and  shapes  of  numbered  days, 

All  accidents  of  human  ways, 

And,  superseding  signs  and  shrifts 

Of  all  allegiances,  lifts 

Service  to  Freedom's  regal  plane 

Beyond  compulsion  or  disdain. 

This  king,  tin's  royal,  simple  king, 
Whose  kingliness  I  love  and  sing, 
Has  not  much  silver  or  much  gold  : 
Told  as  kings'  treasuries  are  told, 
Beggar's  estate  he  must  confess. 
But  all  the  lavish  wilderness 


154  VEKSES. 

Sets  state  for  him.     Tall  pine-trees  bend  ; 
Strange  birds  sing  songs  which  never  end 
The  sunset  and  the  sunrise  sweep 
Backward  and  forward  swift,  to  keep 
Fresh  glory  round  his  pathway.     Then, 
Of  sudden  men  discover,  when 
They  journey  thither  by  his  side, 
What  pomp  and  splendor  are  supplied 
By  Nature's  smallest,  subtlest  thing, 
To  hail  and  crown  the  simple  king. 
Yea  !  and  the  dull  and  stony  street, 
And  walls  within  which  rich  men  meet, 
Cities,  and  all  they  compass,  grow 
Significant,  when  to  and  fro 
The  simple  king,  unrecognized, 
Unenvious,  and  unsurprised, 
Walks  smilingly,  and  as  he  treads 
Unconscious  benediction  spreads. 

Ah  !  king,  thou  royal,  simple  king  ! 
Not  as  by  any  grave  I  sing  ; 
Neither  by  any  present  throne  ; 
King  crowned  to-day,  king  who  hast  gone,, 
In  kingliness  one  and  the  same  ! 
The  house  runs  not  by  race  or  name  ; 
No  day  but  sees,  no  land  but  knows  ; 
The  kingdom  lasts,  the  kingdom  grows  ; 
God  holds  earth  dearer  and  more  dear, 
God's  sons  come  nearer  and  more  near. 


THE     SINGER'S    FRIENDS.  155 


THE    SINGER'S    FRIENDS. 

[jE  roamed  the  earth  with  lonely  feet; 

No  homestead  lured  him  back  ; 
Lands  are  so  full  ;  life  is  so  sweet ; 
Such  skies  and  suns  forever  meet 
To  make  each  day's  great  joy  complete  ; 
'Twas  strange  that  he  so  much  must  lack. 

'Twas  stranger  yet  that  joy  could  still 

His  bosom  overflow  ; 
That  smallest  things  his  soul  could  fill 
With  ecstasy  and  song,  whose  thrill 
No  pain  could  hinder  or  could  chill, 

As  lonely  he  went  to  and  fro. 

But  ever  if  there  came  a  day, 

Which  on  his  joy  and  song 
So  heavy  load  of  sorrow  lay 
That  heart  and  voice  could  not  obey, 
And  feet  refused  the  lonely  way, 

So  lonely,  and  so  hard,  and  long, 

It  always  chanced,  —  though  chance  is  not 

The  word  when  God  befriends, — 
That  on  such  days  to  him  was  brought 
Echo  from  some  old  song,  forgot, 
Which  sudden  made  his  lonely  lot 
Seem  cast  for  worthier,  sweeter  ends. 


15  6  FEKSES. 

Some  stranger  whose  sad  eyes  were  wet 
With  tears,  would  take  his  hands, 

Saying,  "  O  Singer,  my  great  debt 

To  thee  I  never  can  forget. 

My  grief  in  thy  grief's  words  was  set, 
And  comforted  forever  stands." 

Or  else  he  heard,  borne  on  the  air 

Where  merry  music  rang, 
Making  the  fair  day  still  more  fair, 
Lifting  the  burden  off  of  care, 
Old  words  of  his  that  did  their  share, 

While  happy  people  laughed  and  sang. 

Or  else,  —  O,  sacredest  of  all, 

And  sweetest  recompense,  — 
Love  used  his  words,  its  love  to  call 
By  name  :  of  his  dead  joy,  the  thrall 
Waked  live  joy  still,  and  could  forestall 

Love's  utmost  passion's  subtlest  sense. 

So  when  at  last,  in  lonely  grave, 

He  laid  his  lonely  head, 
No  loving  heart  more  tears  need  crave  ; 
Nowhere  more  sacred  grasses  wave  ; 
All  human  hearts  to  whom  he  gave 

Grieved  like  friends'  hearts  when  he  was  dead. 


DOUBT.  157 


DOUBT. 

HEY  bade  me  cast  the  thing  away, 
They  pointed  to  my  hands  all  bleeding, 
They  listened  not  to  all  my  pleading ; 
The  thing  I  meant  I  could  not  say ; 

I  knew  that  I  should  rue  the  day 

If  once  I  cast  that  thing  away. 

I  grasped  it  firm,  and  bore  the  pain  ; 
The  thorny  husks  I  stripped  and  scattered; 
If  I  could  reach  its  heart,  what  mattered 

If  other  men  saw  not  my  gain, 

Or  even  if  I  should  be  slain  ? 

I  knew  the  risks  ;  I  chose  the  pain. 

O,  had  I  cast  that  thing  away, 
I  had  not  found  what  most  I  cherish, 
A  faith  without  which  I  should  perish,  — 
The  faith  which,  like  a  kernel,  lay 
Hid  in  the  husks  which  on  that  day 
My  instinct  would  not  throw  away  ! 


158  VERSES. 


FORGIVEN. 


DREAMED  so  dear  a  dream  of  you  last 

night  ! 

I  thought  you  came.    I  was  so  glad,  so  gay, 
I  whispered,   "Those  were  foolish  words 

to  say  : 

I  meant  them  not.     I  cannot  bear  the  sight 
Of  your  dear  face.     I  cannot  meet  the  light 
Of  your  dear  eyes  upon  me.     Sit,  I  pray, — 
Sit  here  beside  me  :  turn  your  look  away, 
And  lay  your  cheek  on  mine."   Till  morning  bright 
We  sat  so,  and  we  did  not  speak.     I  knew 
All  was  forgiven  ;  so  I  nestled  there  [flew. 

With  your  arms  round  me.      Swift  the  sweet  hours 
At  last  I  waked,  and  sought  you  everywhere. 
How  long,  dear,  think  you,  that  my  glad  cheek  will 
Burn,  — as  it  burns  with  your  cheek's  pressure  still  ? 


THIS    SUMMER. 


THOUGHT  I  knew  all  Summer  knows, 

So  many  summers  I  had  been 
Wed  to  Summer.     Could  I  suppose 
One  hidden  beauty  still  lurked  in 
Her  days  ?  that  she  might  still  disclose 
New  secrets,  and  new  homage  win  ? 

Could  new  looks  flit  across  the  skies  ? 
Could  water  ripple  one  new  sound? 


THIS  SUMMER.  159 

Could  stranger  bee  or  bird  that  flies 
With  yet  new  languages  be  found, 

To  bring  me,  to  my  glad  surprise, 
Message  from  yet  remoter  bound  ? 

O  sweet  "  this  Summer  !  "  Songs  which  sang 

Summer  before  no  longer  mean 
The  whole  of  summer.     Bells  which  rang 

But  minutes  have  marked  years  between. 
Purple  the  grapes  of  Autumn  hang : 

My  sweet  "this  Summer"  still  is  green. 

"  This  Summer  "  still,  —  forgetting  all 
Before  and  since  and  aye,  —  I  say, 

And  shall  say,  when  the  deep  snows  fall, 
And  cold  suns  mark  their  shortest  day. 

New  calendar,  my  heart  will  call ; 

"This  Summer"  still !   Summer  alway  ! 

And  when  God's  next  sweet  world  we  reach, 
And  the  poor  words  we  stammered  here 

Are  fast  forgot,  while  angels  teach 
Us  spirit  language  quick  and  clear, 

Perhaps  some  words  of  earthly  speech 
We  still  shall  speak,  and  still  hold  dear. 

And  if  some  time  in  upper  air 

On  swiftest  wings  we  sudden  meet, 

And  pause  with  answering  smiles  which  share 
Our  joy,  I  think  that  we  shall  greet 

Each  other  thus  :  "  This  world  is  fair  ; 
But  ah  !  that  Summer  too  was  sweet !" 


i6o 


VERSES. 


TRYST. 

OMEWHERE  thou  avvaitest, 
And  I,  with  lips  unkissed, 
Weep  that  thus  to  latest 

Thou  puttest  off  our  tryst ! 

The  golden  bowls  are  broken, 
The  silver  cords  untwine  ; 

Almond  flowers  in  token 

Have  bloomed,  —  that  I  am  thine  ! 

Others  who  would  fly  thee 

In  cowardly  alarms, 
Who  hate  thee  and  deny  thee, 

Thou  foldest  in  thine  arms  ! 

How  shall  I  entreat  thee 

No  longer  to  withhold  ? 
I  dare  not  go  to  meet  thee, 

O  lover,  far  and  cold  ! 

O  lover,  whose  lips  chilling 

So  many  lips  have  kissed, 
Come,  even  if  unwilling, 

And  keep  thy  solemn  tryst ! 


THE  MAGIC  ARMORY,  161 


THE   MAGIC   ARMORY. 

O  man  can  shut  the  open  door  ; 
Strange  hieroglyphs  of  mystic  lore 
Are  writ  on  it  from  beam  to  sill ; 
The  gleams  and  shapes  of  weapons  fill 

Its  silent  chambers  :  field  and  fray 

Of  centuries  have  borne  away 

Its  armor  to  their  victories, 

And  yet  to-day  the  armor  lies 

Unstained  and  bright  and  whole  and  good, 

For  each  man's  utmost  hardihood. 

All  men  go  freely  out  and  in, 
And  choose  their  arms  to  fight  and  win  ; 
But  one  man  goes  with  silly  hands, 
And  helpless,  halting,  choosing  stands, 
And  from  the  glittering,  deadly  steels, 
Fits  him  with  clumsy  sword,  and  deals 
A  feeble,  witless,  useless  blow, 
Which  hurts  no  friend  and  helps  no  foe. 
Close  by  his  side  his  brother  makes 
Swift  choice,  unerringly,  and  takes 
From  those  same  chambers  hilt  and  blade 
With  which  more  magic  sword  is  made 
Than  that  far-famed  which  armed  the  hand 
Of  Lion-Heart  in  Eastern  land. 

So  fight  and  fray  the  centuries, 

The  right  and  truth  with  wrong  and  lies  ; 


1 62  VERSES. 

So  men  go  freely  out  and  in, 
And  choose  their  arms,  and  lose  and  win  ; 
And  none  can  shut  the  open  door, 
All  writ  with  signs  of  mystic  lore, 
Where  weapons  stout  and  old  and  good 
For  each  man's  utmost  hardihood 
Lie  ready,  countless,  priceless,  free, 
Within  the  magic  armory. 


LIFTED    OVER. 

S  tender  mothers  guiding  baby  steps, 
When  places  come  at  which  the  tiny  feet 
Would  trip,  lift  up  the  little  ones  in  arms 
Of  love,  and  set  them  down  beyond  the 

harm, 

So  did  Our  Father  watch  the  precious  boy, 
Led  o'er  the  stones  by  me,  who  stumbled  of 
Myself,  but  strove  to  help  my  darling  on  : 
He  saw  the  sweet  limbs  faltering,  and  saw 
Rough  ways  before  us,  where  my  arms  would  fail ; 
So  reached  from  heaven,  and  lifting  the  dear  child, 
Who  smiled  in  leaving  me,  He  put  him  down 
Beyond  all  hurt,  beyond  my  sight,  and  bade 
Him  wait  for  me  !     Shall  I  not  then  be  glad, 
And,  thanking  God,  press  on  to  overtake  ? 


MY  IIOCSE  NOT  MADE  WITH  HANDS.      163 


MY   HOUSE    NOT   MADE   WITH    HANDS. 


T  is  so  old,  the  date  is  dim  ; 
I  hear  the  wise  man  vexing  him 
With  effort  vain  to  count  and  read, 
But  to  his  words  I  give  small  heed, 
Except  of  pity  that  so  late 
He  sitteth  wrangling  in  the  gate, 
When  he  might  come  with  me  inside, 
And  in  such  peace  and  plenty  bide. 
The  constant  springs  and  summers  thatch, 
With  leaves  that  interlock  and  match, 
Such  roof  as  keeps  out  fiercest  sun 
And  gentle  rain,  but  one  by  one 
Lets  in  blue  banner-gleams  of  sky 
As  pomp  of  day  goes  marching  by 
Under  these  roofs  I  lie  whole  days, 
Watching  the  steady  household  ways  ; 
Innumerable  creatures  come 
And  go,  and  are  far  more  at  home 
Than  I,  who  like  dumb  giant  sit 
Baffled  by  all  their  work  and  wit. 
No  smallest  of  them  condescends 
To  notice  me  ;  their  hidden  ends 
They  follow,  and  above,  below, 
Across  my  bulky  shape  they  go, 
With  swift,  sure  feet,  and  subtle  eyes, 
Too  keen  and  cautious  for  surprise 
In  vain  I  try  their  love  to  reach  ; 


1 64  VERSES. 

Not  one  will  give  me  trust  or  speech. 
No  second  look  the  furry  bee 
Gives,  as  he  bustles  round,  to  me  ; 
Before  my  eyes  slim  spiders  take 
Their  silken  ladders  out  and  make 
No  halt,  no  secret,  scaling  where 
They  like,  and  weaving  scaffolds  there  ; 
The  beaded  ants  prick  out  and  in, 
Mysterious  and  dark  and  thin  ; 
With  glittering  spears  and  gauzy  mail 
Legions  of  insects  dart  and  sail, 
Swift  Bedouins  of  the  pathless  air, 
Finding  rich  plunder  everywhere  ; 
Sweet  birds,  with  motion  more  serene 
Than  stillest  rest,  soar  up  between 
The  fleecy  clouds,  then,  sinking  slow, 
Light  on  my  roof.     I  do  not  know 
That  they  are  there  till  fluttering 
Low  sounds,  like  the  unravelling 
Of  tight-knit  web,  their  soft  wings  make, 
Unfurling  further  flight  to  take. 
All  through  my  house  is  set  out  food, 
Ready  and  plenty,  safe  and  good, 
In  vessels  made  of  cunning  shapes, 
Whose  liquid  spicy  sweet  escapes 
By  drops  at  brims  of  yellow  bowls, 
Or  tips  of  trumpets  red  as  coals, 
Or  cornucopias  pink  and  white, 
By  millions  set  in  circles  tight ; 
Red  wine  turned  jelly,  and  in  moulds 
Of  pointed  calyx  laid  on  folds 


MY  HOUSE  NOT  MADE  WITH  HANDS.      165 

Of  velvet  green  ;  fruit-grains  of  brown, 
Like  dusty  shower  thickly  strewn 
On  underside  of  fronds,  and  hid 
Unless  one  lift  the  carven  lid  ; 
And  many  things  which  in  my  hast 
And  ignorance  I  reckon  waste, 
Unsightly  and  unclean,  I  find 
Are  but  delicious  food,  designed 
For  travellers  who  come  each  day, 
And  eat,  and  drink,  and  go  their  way. 
I  am  the  only  one  who  need 
Go  hungry  where  so  many  feed  ; 
My  birthright  of  protection  lost, 
Because  of  fathers'  sins  the  cost 
Is  counted  in  the  children's  blood  : 
I  starve  where  once  I  might  have  stood 
Content  and  strong  as  bird  or  bee, 
Feeding  like  them  on  flower  or  tree. 
When  I  have  hunger,  I  must  rise 
And  seek  the  poisons  I  despise, 
Leaving  untouched  on  every  hand 
The  sweet  wild  foods  of  air  and  land, 
And  leaving  all  my  happier  kin 
Of  beasts  and  birds  behind  to  win 
The  great  rewards  which  only  they 
Can  win  who  Nature's  laws  obey. 

Under  these  roofs  of  waving  thatch, 
Lying  whole  days  to  dream  and  watch, 
I  find  myself  grow  more  and  more 
Vassal  of  summer  than  before  ; 


1 66  VERSES. 

Allegiances  I  thought  were  sworn 

For  life  I  break  with  hate  and  scorn. 

One  thing  alone  I  hope,  desire  : 

To  make  my  human  life  come  nigher 

The  life  these  lead  whose  silent  gaze 

Reproaches  me  and  all  my  ways  ; 

To  glide  along  as  they  all  glide, 

Submissive  and  unterrified, 

Without  a  thought  of  loss  or  gain, 

Without  a  jar  of  haste  or  pain, 

And  go,  without  one  quickened  breath, 

Finding  all  realms  of  life,  of  death, 

But  summer  hours  in  sunny  lands, 

To  my  next  house  not  made  with  hands, 


MY    STRAWBERRY. 

^jj\  MARVEL,  fruit  of  fruits,  I  pause 
To  reckon  thee.     I  ask  what  cause 
Set  free  so  much  of  red  from  heats 
At  core  of  earth,  and  mixed  such  sweets 
With  sour  and  spice  :  what  was  that  strength 
Which  out  of  darkness,  length  by  length, 
Spun  all  thy  shining  thread  of  vine, 
Netting  the  fields  in  bond  as  thine. 
I  see  thy  tendrils  drink  by  sips 
From  grass  and  clover's  smiling  lips  ; 
I  hear  thy  roots  dig  down  for  wells, 
Tapping  the  meadow's  hidden  cells  ; 
Whole  generations  of  green  things, 


TRIUMPH.  167 

Descended  from  long  lines  of  springs, 
I  see  make  room  for  thee  to  bide 
A  quiet  comrade  by  their  side  ; 
I  see  the  creeping  peoples  go 
Mysterious  journeys  to  and  fro, 
Treading  to  right  and  left  of  thee, 
Doing  thee  homage  wondenngly. 
I  see  the  wild  bees  as  they  fare, 
Thy  cups  of  honey  drink,  but  spare. 
I  mark  thee  bathe  and  bathe  again 
In  sweet  uncalendared  spring  rain. 
I  watch  how  all  May  has  of  sun 
Makes  haste  to  have  thy  ripeness  done, 
While  all  her  nights  let  dews  escape 
To  set  and  cool  thy  perfect  shape. 
Ah,  fruit  of  fruits,  no  more  I  pause 
To  dream  and  seek  thy  hidden  laws  ! 
I  stretch  my  hand  and  dare  to  taste, 
In  instant  of  delicious  waste 
On  single  feast,  all  things  that  went 
To  make  the  empire  thou  hast  spent 


TRIUMPH. 

he  who  rides  through  conquered  city's 

gate, 

At  head  of  blazoned  hosts,  and  to  the  sound 
Of  victors'  trumpets,  in  full  pomp  and  state 
Of  war,  the  utmost  pitch  has  dreamed  or  found 
To  which  the  thrill  of  triumph  can  be  wound; 


i68 


VERSES. 


Nor  he,  who  by  a  nation's  vast  acclaim 
Is  sudden  sought  and  singled  out  alone, 
And  while  the  people  madly  shout  his  name, 
Without  a  conscious  purpose  of  his  own, 
Is  swung  and  lifted  to  the  nation's  throne  ; 

But  he  who  has  all  single-handed  stood 
With  foes  invisible  on  every  side, 
And,  unsuspected  of  the  multitude, 
The  force  of  fate  itself  has  dared,  defied, 
And  conquered  silently. 

Ah  that  soul  knows 
In  what  white  heat  the  blood  of  triumph  glows ! 


RETURN  TO  THE  HILLS. 

IKE  a  music  of  triumph  and  joy 
Sounds  the  roll  of  the  wheels, 
1  And  the  breath  of  the  engine  laughs  out 

In  loud  chuckles  and  peals, 
Like  the  laugh  of  a  man  that  is  glad 

Coming  homeward  at  night ; 
I  lean  out  of  the  window  and  nod 

To  the  left  and  the  right, 
To  my  friends  in  the  fields  and  the  woods  ; 

Not  a  face  do  I  miss  ; 
The  sweet  asters  and  browned  golden-rod, 

And  that  stray  clematis, 
Of  all  vagabonds  dearest  and  best, 
In  most  seedy  estate  ; 


RETURN  TO    THE  HILLS.  169 

I  am  sure  they  all  recognize  me  ; 

If  I  only  could  wait, 
I  should  hear  all  the  welcome  which  now 

In  their  faces  I  read, 
"  O  true  lover  of  us  and  our  kin, 

We  all  bid  thee  God  speed  !  " 

O  my  mountains,  no  wisdom  can  teach 

Me  to  think  that  ye  care 
Nothing  more  for  my  steps  than  the  rest, 

Or  that  they  can  have  share 
Such  as  mine  in  your  royal  crown-lands, 

Unencumbered  of  fee; 
In  your  temples  with  altars  unhewn, 

Where  redemption  is  free ; 
In  your  houses  of  treasure,  which  gold 

Cannot  buy  if  it  seek  ; 
And  your  oracles,  mystic  with  words, 

Which  men  lose  if  they  speak  ! 

Ah  !  with  boldness  of  lovers  who  wed 

I  make  haste  to  your  feet, 
And  as  constant  as  lovers  who  die, 

My  surrender  repeat ; 
And  I  take  as  the  right  of  my  love, 

And  I  keep  as  its  sign, 
An  ineffable  joy  in  each  sense 

And  new  strength  as  from  wine, 
A  seal  for  all  purpose  and  hope, 

And  a  pledge  of  full  light, 
Like  a  pillar  of  cloud  for  my  day, 

And  of  fire  for  my  night. 


170  VERSES. 


"DOWN  TO  SLEEP." 


OVEMBER  woods  are  bare  and  still ; 

November  days  are  clear  and  bright ; 

Each  noon  burns  up  the  morning's  chill  ; 

The  morning's  snow  is  gone  by  night ; 
Each  day  my  steps  grow  slow,  grow  light, 
As  through  the  woods  I  reverent  creep, 
Watching  all  things  lie  "  down  to  sleep." 

I  never  knew  before  what  beds, 
Fragrant  to  smell,  and  soft  to  touch, 
The  forest  sifts  and  shapes  and  spreads ; 
I  never  knew  before  how  much 
Of  human  sound  there  is  in  such 
Low  tones  as  through  the  forest  sweep 
When  all  wild  things  lie  "  down  to  sleep." 

Each  day  I  find  new  coverlids 
Tucked  in,  and  more  sweet  eyes  shut  tight ; 
Sometimes  the  viewless  mother  bids 
Her  ferns  kneel  down,  full  in  my  sight ; 
I  hear  their  chorus  of  "good  night  "  ; 
And  half  I  smile,  and  half  I  weep, 
Listening  while  they  lie  "  down  to  sleep." 

November  woods  are  bare  and  still  ; 
November  days  are  bright  and  good  ; 
Life's  noon  burns  up  life's  morning  chill ; 


FALLOW.  171 

Life's  night  rests  feet  which  long  have  stood  ; 
Some  warm  soft  bed,  in  field  or  wood, 
The  mother  will  not  fail  to  keep, 
Where  we  can  *'  lay  us  down  to  sleep." 


FALLOW. 

BOVE,  below  me,  on  the  hill, 
Great  fields  of  grain  their  fulness  fill ; 
The  golden  fruit  bends  down  the  trees  ; 
The    grass    stands    high    round    mowers' 

knees  ; 

The  bee  pants  through  the  clover-beds, 
And  cannot  taste  of  half  the  heads  ; 
The  farmer  stands,  with  greedy  eyes, 
And  counts  his  harvest's  growing  size. 

Among  his  fields,  so  fair  to  see, 

He  takes  no  count,  no  note,  of  me. 

I  lie  and  bask,  along  the  hill, 

Content  and  idle,  idle  still, 

My  lazy  silence  never  stirred 

By  breathless  bee  or  hungry  bird  : 

All  creatures  know  the  cribs  which  yield  ; 

No  creature  seeks  the  fallow  field. 

But  to  no  field  on  all  the  hill 

Come  sun  and  rain  with  more  good-will  ; 

All  secrets  which  they  bear  and  bring 


172  VERSES. 

To  wheat  before  its  ripening, 

To  clover  turning  purple  red, 

To  grass  in  bloom  for  mowers'  tread,  — 

They  tell  the  same  to  my  bare  waste, 

But  never  once  bid  me  to  haste. 

Winter  is  near,  and  snow  is  sweet ; 

Who  knows  if  they  be  seeds  of  wheat 

Or  clover,  which  my  bosom  fill  ? 

Who  knows  how  many  summers  will 

Be  needed,  spent,  before  one  thing 

Is  ready  for  my  harvesting  ? 

And  after  all,  if  all  were  laid 

Into  sure  balances  and  weighed, 

Who  knows  if  all  the  gain  and  get 

On  which  hot  human  hearts  are  set 

Do  more  than  mark  the  drought  and  dearth 

Through  which  this  little  dust  of  earth 

Must  lie  and  wait  in  God's  great  hand, 

A  patient  bit  of  fallow  land  ? 


LOVE'S  RICH  AND  POOR.  173 


LOVE'S   RICH   AND   POOR. 


AKING  me  hand  in  hand, 
Love  led  me  through  his  land. 
His  land  bloomed  white  and  red  ; 
His  palaces  were  fair  ; 
Glad  people  everywhere 
Stood  smiling. 

Then  Love  said,  — 

"  With  all  my  kingdom  wins, 
Never  my  heart  begins 
To  rest ;  my  cruel  poor 
So  rob  my  rich.     By  speech, 
By  look,  they  overreach, 
And  plunder  every  store. 

"  My  rich  I  love,  and  make 
More  rich,  for  giving's  sake. 
My  poor  I  scorn  ;  they  choose 
Their  chilly  beggary  ; 
My  gold  is  ready,  free, 
But  they  forget,  refuse. 

"  My  rich  I  love.     I  weep 
To  see  them  starved,  to  keep 
My  worthless  poor  well  fed  ; 
To  see  them  shiver,  cold, 
\Vhilc  wrapped  with  fold  on  fold, 
The  beggars  sleep  in  bed. 


174  VERSES. 

"  My  rich  I  love,  and  yet 
My  love  no  law  can  set ; 
In  vain  I  warn  and  cry  ; 
They  give,  and  give,  and  give  ; 
The  selfish  beggars  live, 
And  smiling  see  them  die." 

Then  walking  hand  in  hand 
With  Love  throughout  his  land,  — 
Land  blooming  white  and  red,  — 
I  saw  that  everywhere, 
Where  life  and  love  looked  fair, 
It  was  as  he  had  said. 


LIGHT   ON   THE   MOUNTAIN-TOPS. 

N  Alpine  valleys,  they  who  watch  for  dawn 
Look  never  to  the  east ;  but  fix  their  eyes 
On  loftier  mountain-peaks  of  snow,  which  rise 
To  west  or  south. 

Before  the  happy  morn 
Has  sent  one  ray  of  kindling  red,  to  warn 
The  sleeping  clouds  along  the  eastern  skies 
That  it  is  near,  —  flushing,  in  glad  surprise, 
These  royal  hills,  for  royal  watchmen  born, 
Discover  that  God's  great  new  day  begins, 
And,  shedding  from  their  sacred  brows  a  light 
Prophetic,  wake  the  valley  from  its  night. 


CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  IN  ST.    PETERS.      175 

Such  mystic  light  as  this  a  great  soul  wins, 
Who  overlooks  earth's  wall  of  griefs  and  sins, 
And  steadfast,  always,  gazing  on  the  white 
Great  throne  of  God,  can  call  aloud  with  deep, 
Pure  voice  of  truth,  to  waken  them  who  sleep. 

BAD-GASTEIN,  AUSTRIA,  September  9,  1869. 


CHRISTMAS  NIGHT   IN   ST.  PETER'S. 


OW  on  the  marble  floor  I  lie  : 

I  am  alone  : 

Though  friendly  voices  whisper  nigh, 
And  foreign  crowds  are  passing  by, 
I  am  alone. 

Great  hymns  float  through 
The  shadowed  aisles.     I  hear  a  slow 
Refrain,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know 
Not  what  they  do." 

With  tender  joy  all  others  thrill ; 

I  have  but  tears  : 

The  false  priests'  voices,  high  and  shrill, 
Reiterate  the  "  Peace,  good-will "  ; 

I  have  but  tears. 

I  hear  anew 

The  nails  and  scourge  ;  then  come  the  low 
Sad  words,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know 

Not  what  they  do." 


VERSES. 

Close  by  my  side  the  poor  souls  kneel ; 

I  turn  away ; 

Half-pitying  looks  at  me  they  steal  ; 
They  think,  because  I  do  not  feel, 

I  turn  away. 

Ah  !  if  they  knew, 

How  following  them,  where'er  they  go, 
I  hear,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know 

Not  what  they  do 

Above  the  organ's  sweetest  strains 

I  hear  the  groans 
Of  prisoners,  who  lie  in  chains, 
So  near,  and  in  such  mortal  pains, 

I  hear  the  groans. 

But  Christ  walks  through 
The  dungeons  of  St.  Angelo, 
And  says,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know 

Not  what  they  do." 

And  now  the  music  sinks  to  sighs  ; 

The  lights  grow  dim  : 
The  Pastorella's  melodies 
In  lingering  echoes  float  and  rise  ; 

The  lights  grow  dim  ; 

More  clear  and  true, 
In  this  sweet  silence,  seem  to  flow 
The  words,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know 

Not  what  they  do." 

The  dawn  swings  incense,  silver  gray  ; 
The  night  is  past ; 


WELCOME.  177 

Now  comes,  triumphant,  God's  full  day  ; 
No  priest,  no  church  can  bar  its  way  : 
The  night  is  past : 

How,  on  this  blue 

Of  God's  great  banner,  blaze  and  glow 
The  words,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know 

Not  what  they  do  ! " 

ROME,  December  26,  1868- 


WELCOME, 
TO  C.   C 

ELCOME  !     Perhaps  the  simple  word  says 

all. 

And  yet,  when  from  a  country's  earnest  heart 
It  sudden  springs,  quick  pride  and  triumph 

start, 

Eager  as  love,  and  even  hold  in  thrall 
Of  silence  love's  own  speech,  while  they  recall 
How  in  all  men's  great  deeds  of  life  and  art 
Their  native  land  immortal  share  and  part 
Must  keep. 

But  thou,  O  royal  soul,  how  small 
Such  laurels  unto  thee,  we  know  who  love 
Thee,  and  whom  thou  hast  loved  !     We  dare  to  bring 
To  thee  this  mite  of  silent  offering, 
And  know  how  it  thy  great,  warm  heart  will  move, 
That,  dumb  with  joy,  we  find  no  voice  as  yet, 
And  cannot  see,  because  our  eyes  are  wet ! 


178  VERSES. 


TWO   COMRADES. 
To  O.  W.  AND  H.  DE  K. 

S  when  in  some  green  forest  depth  we  find 
The  spot  to  which  with  idle,  tinkling  feet, 
Two  brooks  have  danced  all  unawares  tc 

meet 

Each  other,  where  at  sight  they  interwind 
Their  shining  arms,  and  loving,  trusting,  bind 
Themselves  for  life,  and  with  a  louder  song 
And  in  a  wider  channel  glide  along  ; 

As  when  in  some  great  symphony  we  trace, 

Through  deep  and  underlying  harmonies, 

How  all  the  notes  of  melody  uprise, 

Lifted  by  answering  notes  in  distant  place, 

Fulfilling  each  in  each  the  final  grace, 

But  shielding,  keeping  each  from  each 

The  separate  voices  through  the  blended  speech ; 

So  when  we  see  two  human  souls  by  fate 
Held  in  life's  restless  current  side  by  side, 
And  in  their  deepest  nature  so  allied 
That  each,  but  for  the  other,  life's  estate 
Must  smaller  find,  a  sense  of  joy,  too  great 
Almost  for  speech,  thrills  earnest  souls  who  heed 
Their  fellowship  and  long  to  say  "  God-speed  !  " 


TWO   COMRADES.  179 

Two  comrades  such  as  these  I  know,  —  young,  fair ; 
So  fair,  that  choice  cannot  find  right  to  choose  ; 
So  fair,  that  wish  can  nothing  miss  or  lose 
In  either  face  ;  so  young,  their  eyes  still  wear 
The  looks  with  which  young  children  trust  and  dare  ; 
So  young,  the  womanhood  of  each  warm  heart 
As  yet  finds  love  enough  in  love  of  Art. 

One,  silent,  —  with  a  silence  whose  quick  speech 

By  subtler  eloquence  than  any  word, 

Reveals    when    deepest    depths  are    touched    and 

stirred,  — 

Reveals  by  color  tides  which  mount  and  reach 
Her  broad,  white  brow,  as  on  some  magic  beach, 
Where  only  spotless,  peaceful  snows  resist, 
Might  break  a  crimson  sea  through  veiling  mist. 

Silent,  with  silence  which  might  often  make 

Dull  ears  believe  the  answer  unexpressed 

Meant  an  assent,  or  aquiescent  rest ; 

Silence  whose  earnestness  dull  souls  mistake  ; 

But  silence  out  of  which  words  leap  and  break, 

As  from  their  sheaths  swords  leap  and  flash  in  sun, 

When  comes  the  time  for  swords,  and  truce  is  done  ; 

Silence  which  to  all  finer  spirits  is 

Full  of  such  revelation  and  delight 

As  Nature's  lovers  find  and  feel  in  sight 

Of  her  most  sacred,  subtle  silences  ; 

Silence  of  mountain  lake,  untouched  by  breeze  ; 

Silence  of  lily's  heart,  cool,  white,  and  pure  ; 

Silence  of  crystal  growths,  patient  and  sure. 


i  So  VERSES. 

The  other,  earnest  equally,  but  born 
With  veins  made  for  a  tropic  current's  flow ; 
Intolerant  if  fate  seem  cold,  seem  slow  ; 
Full  of  a  noble,  restless,  dauntless  scorn ; 
Unjust  to  night,  for  eager  love  of  morn  ; 
Unjust  to  small  things  for  the  love  of  great ; 
Too  faithless  of  all  good  which  tarries  late. 

But  yet  through  all  this  tropic  current's  heat, 
Through  all  this  scorn  of  failures  and  delays, 
Lives  faithfulness  which  never  disobeys 
The  smallest  law  of  patience,  and,  more  sweet 
Than  patience'  self,  works  on  to  its  complete 
Fulfilling,  wresting  thus  from  alien  powers 
A  double  guerdon  for  the  conquered  hours. 

In  vain  among  all  rich  and  beauteous  things 

With  which  the  realms  of  beauteous  Nature  teems 

I  look  for  one  which  fair  and  fitting  seems 

As  simile  for  her  swift  soul,  which  wings 

Itself  more  swift  than  bird  can  fly,  which  springs 

And  soars  like  fountain,  but  finds  no  content 

At  levels  whence  its  own  bright  waters  went. 

Only  one  thing  there  is  whose  name  is  name 
Also  for  her  :  swift,  restless,  patient  fire, 
Which,  burning  always,  loses  no  desire ; 
Which  leaps  and  soars  and  blazes  all  the  same, 
If  spices  or  dull  fagots  feed  its  flame  ; 
Swift,  restless,  patient  fire,  which  saves  and  turns 
Into  more  precious  things  all  things  it  burns. 


DEMETER.  181 

O  comrades,  sweet  to  know  and  hear  and  see, 

Whom  I  have  dared  to  paint,  each  empty  phrase 

But  mocks  my  thought ;  no  dreamy  singer's  praise, 

No  flattering  voice  of  hope  and  prophecy 

Of  what  the  future  years  shall  bring  and  be, 

No  stranger's  recognition  do  ye  need  ! 

Ah  !  comrades,  sweet  to  hear  and  see,  "  God-speed  !  " 


DEMETER. 

LEGEND  of  foul  shame  to  motherhood  ! 

How    doubly    orphaned    ignorance    which 
wrought 

Such  tale  ;  which  deemed  a  mother's  soul 

had  bought 

One  healing  for  her  woe  in  that  she  could 
Strike  other  mothers  desolate  ;  —  made  good 
Her  loss  by  theirs,  unpitying  while  they  sought 
As  she  had  sought,  weeping  and  finding  nought 
But  cruel  empty  places  where  had  stood 
The  children. 

Ah,  true  motherhood,  bereft, 
Finds  only  joy  in  thought  that  joy  is  left 
For  other  mothers  :  smiling,  it  abides 
In  loneliness,  a  little  way  apart, 
And  from  all  happy  mothers  gladly  hides, 
And  veils  the  chilly  winter  in  its  heart. 


1 82  VEKSES. 


EXPECTANCY. 

ERPETUAL  dawn  makes  glorious  all  hills  ; 

Perpetual  altar-feast  sets  fresh  shew-bread ; 

Perpetual  symphony  swells  overhead  ; 

Perpetual  revelation  pours  and  fills 
For  every  eye  and  ear  and  soul  which  wills 
And  waits,  with  will  and  waiting  which  are  wed 
Into  true  harmony,  like  that  which  led 
The  forces  under  which,  with  silent  thrills, 
Earth's  subtile  life  began. 

Ah,  on  the  brink 

Of  each  new  age  of  great  eternity,  I  think, 
After  the  ages  have  all  countless  grown, 
Our  souls  will  poise  and  launch  with  eager  wing, 
Forgetting  blessedness  already  known, 
In  sweet  impatience  for  God1s  next  good  thing. 


BELATED. 

N  a  September  day  I  came 
Seeking  that  flower  of  sweetest  name 
Of  all,  from  which  the  lavish  June 
With  boundless  fragrance  fills  the  noon, 

In  woods  where  her  best  blossoms  hide. 

"  O  sweet  Twin-Flower  !  "   I  longing  cried, 

Hopeless  but  eager,  "is  there  still 

One  tiny  pink  bell  left  ?     And  will 


BELATED.  183 

Thy  guardian  fairy  condescend 

To  guide  my  feet,  that  I  may  bend, 

In  reverent  and  fond  delight, 

Once  more  at  the  transcendent  sight  ? " 

The  spicy  woods  were  still  and  cool  ; 

In  many  a  little  mossy  pool 

Bright  leaves  were  floating  round  and  round  ; 

The  partridge  mother's  watchful  sound, 

The  sighs  of  dying  leaves  that  fell, 

Were  all  that  broke  the  silent  spell. 

In  mats  and  tangles  everywhere, 

The  Twin-Flower  vines  lay,  green  and  fair, 

With  subtle  beauty  all  their  own, 

Wreathing  each  hillock  and  each  stone, 

Stretching  in  slender  coiling  shoot, 

Far  out  of  sight  of  parent  root, 

Making  white  silken  fibres  fast 

To  all  the  mosses  as  they  passed  ; 

But  trembling,  empty,  withered,  bare, 

Stood  all  the  thread-like  flower-stems  there. 

"  Too  late,"  I  said,  and  rambled  on, 

Sadder  because  the  flowers  were  gone, 

Yet  glad,  and  laden  with  green  vines 

Of  everything  that  climbs  and  twines  ; 

With  glossy  ferns,  and  snowy  seeds 

Strung  thick  on  scarlet  stems,  like  beads, 

And  Tiarellas  packed  between 

In  mottled,  scalloped  disks  of  green, 

And  purple  Asters  fit  for  hem 

Of  High-Priest's  robes,  and,  shading  them 

Like  sunlit  tree-tops  waving  broad, 

Great  branching  stalks  of  Golden  Rod. 


184  VERSES. 

So,  glad  and  laden,  through  the  wood 

I  went,  till  on  its  edge  I  stood, 

When  at  my  very  feet  I  saw, 

With  sudden  joy,  half  joy,  half  awe, 

Low  nestled  in  a  dead  log's  cleft 

One  pale  Twin- Flower,  the  last  one  left. 

So  near  my  hasty  step  had  been 

To  trampling  it,  it  quivered  in 

The  air,  and  like  a  fairy  bell 

Swung  to  and  fro,  with  notes  that  fell 

No  doubt  on  hidden  ears  more  fine, 

And  more  of  kin  to  it  than  mine. 

"  O  dear  belated  thing  !  "  I  cried, 

And  knelt  like  worshipper  beside 

The  mossy  log.     The  wood,  so  still, 

With  sudden  echo  seemed  to  fill. 

Repeated  on  each  side  I  heard 

In  soft  rebuke  my  thoughtless  word, 

«  Belated  "  ! 

No  !  ah.  never  yet 
The  smallest  reckoning  was  set 
Too  slow,  too  fast,  by  Nature's  hand. 
Her  hours  appointed  faithful  stand. 
Her  million  doors  wide-open  stay. 
Love  cannot  lose  nor  leave  his  way, 
Comes  not  too  soon,  comes  not  too  late. 
Twin-Flowers  and  hearts  their  lovers  wait 


TO  AN  UNKNOWN  LADY.  185 


TO    AN    UNKNOWN    LADY. 


There  lived  a  lady  who  was  lovelier 

Than  anything  that  my  poor  skill  may  paint,  — 
Though  I  would  follow  round  the  world  till  faint 

I  fell,  for  just  one  little  look  at  her. 

Who  said  she  seemed  like  this  or  that  did  err : 
Like  her  dear  self  she  was,  alone,  —  no  taint 
From  touch  of  mortal  or  of  earth  ;  blest  saint 

Serene,  with  many  a  faithful  worshipper ! 
There  is  no  poet's  poesy  would  not, 

When  laid  against  the  whiteness  of  her  meek, 
Proud,  solemn  face,  make  there  a  pitiful  blot. 

It  is  so  strange  that  I  can  never  speak  I 

Of  her  without  a  tear.     O,  I  forgot ! 

This  surely  may  fall  blameless  on  that  cheek ! 
From  THE  RIDDLE  OF  LOVERS,  Scribtter's  Monthly  for  June,  1873. 


KNOW  a  lady  —  no,  I  do  not  know 
Her  face,  her  voice ;    I  do  not  know  her 

name  : 
And  yet  such  sudden,  subtle  knowledge 

came 

To  me  of  her  one  day,  that  I  am  slow 
To  think  that  if  I  met  her   I  should  go 

Amiss  in  greeting  her.     Such  sweet,  proud  shame 
In  every  look  would  tell  her  hidden  fame 
Whose  poet  lover,  singing,  loves  her  so 

That  all  his  songs  unconsciously  repeat 
The  fact  of  her,  no  matter  what  he  sings, 


1 86  VERSES. 

The  color  and  the  tone  of  her  in  things 
Remotest,  and  the  presence  of  her,  sweet 
And  strong  to  hold  him  lowest  at  her  feet, 

When  most  he  soars  on  highest  sunlit  wings. 

I  bless  thee,  Lady  whom  I  do  not  know  ! 

I  thank  God  for  thy  unseen,  beauteous  face, 

And  lovely  soul,  which  make  this  year  of  grace 
In  all  our  land  so  full  of  grace  to  grow ; 
As  years  were,  solemn  centuries  ago, 

When  lovers  knew  to  set  in  stateliest  place 

Their  mistresses,  and,  for  their  sake,  no  race 
Disdained  or  feared  to  run,  they  loved  them  so. 

Reading  the  verses  which  I  know  are  thine, 
My  heart  grows  reverent,  as  on  holy  ground. 

I  think  of  many  an  unnamed  saintly  shrine 
I  saw  in  Old  World  churches,  hung  around 

With  pictured  scrolls  and  gifts  in  grateful  sign 
Of  help  which  sore-pressed  souls  of  men  had  found. 

O  sweetest  immortality,  which  pain 
Of  Love's  most  bitter  ecstasy  can  buy, 
Sole  immortality  which  can  defy 

Earth's  power  on  earth's  own  ground,  and  never  wane 

All  other  ways,  hearts  breaking,  try  in  vain. 
All  fire  and  flood  and  moth  and  rust  outvie 
Love's  artifice.     The  sculptor's  marbles  lie 

In  shapeless  fragments  ;  and  to  dust  again 

The  painter's  hand  had  scarcely  turned,  before 

His  colors  faded.     But  the  poet  came, 


A   WILD   ROSE  IN  SEPTEMBER.          187 

Giving  to  her  from  whom  he  took,  his  fame, 
Placing  her  than  the  angels  little  lower, 
And  centuries  cannot  harm  her  any  more 

Than  they  can  pale  the  stars  which  heard  her  name. 


A   WILD    ROSE    IN    SEPTEMBER. 


WILD  red  rose,  what  spell  has  stayed 
Till  now  thy  summer  of  delights  ? 

Where  hid  the  south  wind  when  he  laid 
His  heart  on  thine,  these  autumn  nights  ? 


O  wild  red  rose  !     Two  faces  glow 
At  sight  of  thee,  and  two  hearts  share 

All  thou  and  thy  south  wind  can  know 
Of  sunshine  in  this  autumn  air. 

O  sweet  wild  rose  !     O  strong  south  wind  ! 

The  sunny  roadside  asks  no  reasons 
Why  we  such  secret  summer  find, 

Forgetting  calendars  and  seasons  ! 

Alas  !  red  rose,  thy  petals  wilt ; 

Our  loving  hands  tend  thee  in  vain; 
Our  thoughtless  touch  seems  like  a  guilt  ; 

Ah,  could  we  make  ihee  live  again  ! 


1 88  VEXSES. 

Yet  joy,  wild  rose  !    Be  glad,  south  wind  ! 

Immortal  wind  !  immortal  rose  ! 
Ye  shall  live  on,  in  two  hearts  shrined, 

With  secrets  which  no  words  disclose. 


AN   ARCTIC   QUEST. 

PROUDLY  name  their  names  who  bravely 

sail 

To  seek  brave  lost  in  Arctic  snows  and  seas  ! 
Bring  money  and  bring  ships,  and  on  strong 

knees 

Pray  prayers  so  strong  that  not  one  word  can  fail 
To  pierce  God's  listening  heart ! 

Rigid  and  pale, 

The  lost  men's  bodies,  waiting,  drift  and  freeze  ; 
Yet  shall  their  solemn  dead  lips  tell  to  these 
Who  find  them  secrets  mighty  to  prevail 
On  farther,  darker,  icier  seas. 

1  £° 

Alone,  unhelped,  unprayed-for.     Perishing 
For  years  in  realms  of  more  than  Arctic  snow, 
My  heart  has  lingered. 

Will  the  poor  dead  thing 
Be  sign  to  guide  past  bitter  flood  and  floe, 
To  open  sea,  some  strong  heart  triumphing  ? 


THE  SIGN  OF   THE  DAISY.  189 


THE    SIGN    OF   THE  DAISY. 

LL  summer  she  scattered  the  daisy  leaves ; 
They  only  mocked  her  as  they  fell. 
She  said  :  "  The  daisy  but  deceives  ; 
There  is  no  virtue  in  its  spell. 
*  He  loves  me  not,'  *  he  loves  me  well,' 

One  story  no  two  daisies  tell." 
Ah,  foolish  heart,  which  waits  and  grieves 
Under  the  daisy's  mocking  spell  ! 

But  summer  departed,  and  came  again. 

The  daisies  whitened  every  hill ; 
Her  heart  had  lost  its  last  year's  pain, 

Her  heart  of  love  had  had  its  fill, 
And  held  love's  secrets  at  its  will. 

The  daisies  stood  untouched  and  still, 
No  message  in  that  snowy  rain 

To  one  whose  heart  had  had  its  fill ! 

So  never  the  daisy's  sweet  sign  deceives, 

Though  no  two  will  one  story  tell ; 
The  glad  heart  sees  the  daisy  leaves, 

But  thinks  not  of  their  hidden  spell, 
Heeds  not  which  lingered  and  which  fell. 

"  He  loves  me  ;  yes,  he  loves  me  well." 
Ah,  happy  heart  which  sees,  believes  ! 

This  is  the  daisy's  secret  spell ! 


190  VERSES. 


VINTAGE. 


EFORE  the  time  of  grapes, 

While  they  altered  in  the  sun, 
And  out  of  the  time  of  grapes, 
When  vintage  songs  were  done, 


From  secret  southern  spot, 

Whose  warmth  not  a  mortal  knew  : 
From  shades  which  the  sun  forgot, 

Or  could  not  struggle  through,  — 

Wine  sweeter  than  first  wine, 
She  gave  him  by  drop,  by  drop  ; 

Wine  stronger  than  seal  could  sign, 
She  poured  and  did  not  stop. 

Soul  of  my  soul,  the  shapes 
Of  the  things  of  earth  are  one  ; 

Rememberest  thou  the  grapes 
I  brought  thee  in  the  sun? 

And  darest  thou  still  drink 

Wine  stronger  than  seal  can  sign  ? 
And  smilest  thou  to  think 

Eternal  vintage  thine  ? 


LAST   WORDS. 


LAST   WORDS. 


I9 

RNIA 


EAR  hearts,  whose  love  has  been  so  sweet 

to  know, 

That  I  am  looking  backward  as  I  go, 
Am  lingering  while  I  haste,  and  in  this  rain 
Of  tears  of  joy  am  mingling  tears  of  pain  ; 
Do  not  adorn  with  costly  shrub,  or  tree, 
Or  flower,  the  little  grave  which  shelters  me. 
Let  the  wild  wind-sown  seeds  grow  up  unharmed, 
And  back  and  forth  all  summer,  unalarmed, 
Let  all  the  tiny,  busy  creatures  creep  ; 
Let  the  sweet  grass  its  last  year's  tangles  keep  ; 
And  when,  remembering  me,  you  come  some  day 
And  stand  there,  speak  no  praise,  but  only  say, 
"  How  she  loved  us  !     'T  was  that  which  made  hei 

dear  !  " 
Those  are  the  words  that  I  shall  joy  to  hear. 


University  Press  :   John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


SONNETS    AND    LYRICS 


SONNETS  AND  LYRICS 

BY    ' 

HELEN    JACKSON.  (H.*  H.) 

AUTHOR    OF 

"VERSES,"   "  RAMONA,''   "BITS  OF  TRAVEL,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS 

1888 


Copyright,  1886, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


Suibtrsitg 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


T  TNTO  one  who  lies  at  rest 

\Veath  the  sunset,  in  the   West, 
Clover-blossoms  on  her  breast. 

Lover  of  each  gracious  thing 
Which  makes  glad  the  summer-tide, 
From  the  daisies  clustering 
And  the  violets  purple-eyed, 
To  those  shy  and  hidden  blooms 
Which  in  forest  coverts  stay, 
Sending  wandering  perfumes 
Out  as  guides  to  shcnv  the  way, 
All  she  knew,  to  all  was  kind ; 
None  so  humble  or  so  small 
That  she  did  not  seek  and  find 
Silent  friendship  from  them  alL 
Moss-cups,  tiarella  leaves, 
Dappled  like  the  adder's  skin, 
Fttngtu  huts  with  ivory  eaves 
Which  the  fairies  harbor  in, 
Regiments  of  fronded  ferns, 
Golden-rod  and  asters  frail, 
Every  flaming  leaf  that  burns 
Red  against  the  autumn  pale, 
Every  pink-cupped  wayside  rose,  — 
All  to  her  were  dear  and  known; 
But  above  them  all  she  chose 
Clover-blossoms  for  her  own. 

So  they  laid  her  to  her  rest 

In  the  sun-warmed,  bounteous  West, 

Clover-blossoms  on  her  breast. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  DREAM 7 

DANGER  9 

FREEDOM 10 

THE  GODS  SAID  LOVE  is  BLIND 11 

THE  FIR-TREE  AND  THE  BROOK 12 

A  ROSE-LEAF 14 

A  WOMAN'S  BATTLE 15 

ESTHER 16 

VASHTI 17 

BURNT  OFFERING 18 

BON  VOYAGE 20 

NEW  YEAR'S  MORNING 21 

JANUARY 23 

FEBRUARY 24 

MARCH 25 

APRIL 26 

MAY 27 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

JUNE 28 

JULY 29 

AUGUST •   ....  30 

SEPTEMBER 31 

OCTOBER 32 

NOVEMBER 33 

DECEMBER 34 

REFRAIN •    •    •    •  35 

To  AN  ABSENT  LOVER 38 

CROSSED  THREADS 39 

OUTWARD  BOUND 40 

SEALED  ORDERS 41 

Two 42 

THE  GIFT  OF  GRAPES 44 

AVALANCHES 51 

A  WOMAN'S  DEATH-WOUND 52 

CHANCE S3 

SEPTEMBER 54 

APPEAL 56 

\VRECK 57 

THE  HEART  OF  A  ROSE 58 

ACQUAINTED  WITH  GRIEF 59 

FEALTY .    .  61 

VISION 62 

THE  POET'S  FORGE 63 

VANITY  OF  VANITIES 65 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

MORN 67 

QUATRAINS 68 

RELEASE 70 

WHERE? 71 

EMIGRAVIT 72 

MY  TENANTS 73 

THE  STORY  OF  BOON 75 

THE  VICTORY  OF  PATIENCE 94 

GOD'S  LIGHT-HOUSES 95 

SONGS  OF  BATTLE 97 

No  MAN'S  LAND 98 

JUST  OUT  OF  SIGHT 100 

SEPTEMBER  WOODS 102 

TO-DAY 105 

OPPORTUNITY 106 

FLOWERS  ON  A  GRAVE 107 

A  MEASURE  OF  HOURS 109 

CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN 112 

DEDICATION 114 

DAWN 115 

EVE 115 

DREAMS 116 

THE  DAY-STAR  IN  THE  EAST 117 

OCTOBER'S  BRIGHT  BLUE  WEATHER 119 

THE  RIVIERA i^T 

SEMITONES 122 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

IN  THE  DARK .    .  123 

MORDECAI 124 

IN  APRIL 125 

Two  HARVESTS 127 

HABEAS  CORPUS 129 

A  LAST  PRAYER 132 

THE  SONG  HE  NEVER  WROTE 133 


A   DREAM. 

DREAMED  that  I  was  dead  and  crossed 

the  heavens,  — 
Heavens  after  heavens  with  burning  feet 

and  swift,  — 

And  cried  :  "  O  God,  where  art  Thou  ?     I  left  one 
On  earth,  whose  burden  I  would  pray  Thee  lift." 


I  was  so  dead  I  wondered  at  no  thing,  — 
Not  even  that  the  angels  slowly  turned 

Their  faces,  speechless,  as  I  hurried  by 

(Beneath  my  feet  the  golden  pavements  burned)  ; 

Nor,  at  the  first,  that  I  could  not  find  God, 

Because   the   heavens    stretched    endlessly  like 
space. 

At  last  a  terror  seized  my  very  soul ; 
I  seemed  alone  in  all  the  crowded  place. 


8  A   DREAM. 

Then,  sudden,  one  compassionate  cried  out, 

Though  like  the  rest  his  face  from  me  he  turned, 

As  I  were  one  no  angel  might  regard 

(Beneath  my  feet  the  golden  pavements  burned) : 

"  No  more  in  heaven  than  earth  will  he  find  God 
Who  does  not  know  his  loving  mercy  swift 

But  waits  the  moment  consummate  and  ripe, 
Each  burden  from  each  human  soul  to  lift." 

Though  I  was  dead,  I  died  again  for  shame  ; 
-   Lonely,  to  flee  from  heaven  again  I  turned ; 
The  ranks  of  angels  looked  away  from  me 

(Beneath  my  feet  the  golden  pavements  burned). 


DANGER. 


DANGER. 

what   a   childish    and    short-sighted 

sense 
Fear  seeks  for  safety;   reckons  up  the 

days 

Of  danger  and  escape,  the  hours  and  ways 
Of  death  ;  it  breathless  flies  the  pestilence  ; 
It  walls  itself  in  towers  of  defence  ; 
By  land,  by  sea,  against  the  storm  it  lays 
Down  barriers  ;  then,  comforted,  it  says  : 
"  This  spot,  this  hour  is  safe."     Oh,  vain  pretence  ! 
Man  born  of  man  knows  nothing  when  he  goes  ; 
The  winds  blow  where  they  list,  and  will  disclose 
To  no  man  which  brings  safety,  which  brings  risk. 
The  mighty  are  brought  low  by  many  a  thing 
Too  small  to  name.     Beneath  the  daisy's  disk 
Lies  hid  the  pebble  for  the  fatal  sling. 


10  FREEDOM. 


FREEDOM. 

HAT  freeman  knoweth  freedom?     Never 

he 
Whose  father's  fathers  through  long  lives 

have  reigned 

O'er  kingdoms  which  mere  heritage  attained. 
Though  from  his  youth  to  age  he  roam  as  free 
As  winds,  he  dreams  not  freedom's  ecstasy. 
But  he  whose  birth  was  in  a  nation  chained 
For  centuries  ;  where  every  breath  was  drained 
From  breasts  of  slaves  which  knew  not  there  could 

be 

Such  thing  as  freedom,  —  he  beholds  the  light 
Burst,  dazzling ;  though  the  glory  blind  his  sight 
He  knows  the  joy.     Fools  laugh  because  he  reels 
And  wields  confusedly  his  infant  will ; 
The  wise  man  watching  with  a  heart  that  feels 
Says  :  "Cure  for  freedom's  harms  is  freedom  still." 


THE   GODS  SAID  LOVE  IS  BLIND.        II 


THE   GODS  SAID   LOVE   IS   BLIND. 

HE  gods  said  Love  is  blind.     The  earth 

was  young 
With  foolish,  youthful  laughter  when  it 

heard ; 

It  caught  and  spoke  the  letter  of  the  words, 
And  from  that  time  till  now  hath  said  and  sung, 
"  Oh,  Love  is  blind  !     The  falsest  face  and  tongue 
Can  cheat  him,  once  his  passion's  thrill  is  stirred : 
He  is  so  blind,  poor  Love  ! " 

Strange  none  demurred 
At  this,  nor  saw  how  hollow  false  it  rang, 
When  all  men  know  that  sightless  men  can  tell 
Unnumbered  things  which  vision  cannot  find. 
Powers  of  the  air  are  leagued  to  guide  them  well; 
And  things  invisible  weave  clew  and  spell 
By  which  all  labyrinths  they  safely  wind. 
Ah,  we  were  lost,  if  Love  had  not  been  blind  ! 


12        THE  FIR-TREE  AND    THE  BROOK. 


THE   FIR-TREE   AND   THE   BROOK. 

Fir- Tree  looked  on  stars,  but  loved  the 

Brook  ! 

"  O  silver- voiced  !  if  thou  wouldst  wait, 
My  love  can  bravely  woo."     All  smiles  forsook 
The  Brook's  white  face.     "  Too  late  ! 
Too  late  !     I  go  to  wed  the  sea. 
I  know  not  if  my  love  would  curse  or  bless  thee. 
I  may  not,  dare  not,  tarry  to  caress  thee, 
Oh,  do  not  follow  me  1" 

The  Fir-Tree  moaned  and  moaned  till  spring  ; 

Then  laughed  in  maniac  joy  to  feel 

Early  one  day,  the  woodmen  of  the  King 

Sign  him  with  sign  of  burning  steel, 

The  first  to  fall.     "  Now  flee 

Thy  swiftest,  Brook !     Thy  love  may  curse  or  bless 

me, 

I  care  not,  if  but  once  thou  dost  caress  me, 
O  Brook,  I  follow  thee  !  " 

All  torn  and  bruised  with  mark  of  axe  and  chain, 
Hurled  down  the  dizzy  slide  of  sand, 


THE  FIR-TREE  AND    THE  BROOK.       13 

Tossed  by  great  waves  in  ecstasy  of  pain, 

And  rudely  thrown  at  last  to  land, 

The  Fir-Tree  heard  :  "  Oh,  see 

With  what  fierce  love  it  is  I  must  caress  thee  ! 

I  warned.thee  I  might  curse,  and  never  bless  thee, 

Why  did'st  thou  follow  me?" 

All  stately  set  with  spar  and  brace  and  rope, 

The  Fir-Tree  stood  and  sailed,  and  sailed. 

In  wildest  storm  when  all  the  ship  lost  hope, 

The  Fir-Tree  never  shook  nor  quailed, 

Nor  ceased  from  saying,  "  Free 

Art  thou,  O  Brook  !     But  once  thou  hast  caressed 

me; 
For  life,  for  death,  thy  love  Has  cursed  or  blessed 

me  ; 
Behold,  I  follow  thee  !  " 

Lost  in  a  night,  and  no  man  left  to  tell, 

Crushed  in  the  giant  icebergs'  play, 

The  ship  went  down  without  a  song,  a  knell. 

Still  drifts  the  Fir-Tree  night  and  day ; 

Still  moans  along  the  sea 

A  voice  :  "  O  Fir-Tree  !  thus  must  I  possess  thee  ; 

Eternally,  brave  love,  will  I  caress  thee, 

Dead  for  the  love  of  me  ! " 


14  A   ROSE-LEAF. 


A   ROSE-LEAF. 


ROSE-LEAF  on  the  snowy  deck, 
The  high  wind  whirling  it  astern  ; 

Nothing  the  wind  could  know  or  reck ; 
Why  did  the  King's  eye  thither  turn  ? 


"The  Queen  has  walked  here  ! "  hoarse  he  cried. 
The    courtiers,    stunned,    turned    red,  turned 

white ; 

No  use  if  they  had  stammered,  lied ; 
Aghast  they  fled  his  angry  sight. 

Kings'  wives  die  quick,  when  kings  go  mad ; 

To  death  how  fair  and  grave  she  goes  ! 
What  if  the  king  knew  now,  she  had 

Shut  in  her  hand  a  little  rose  ? 

And  men  die  quick  when  kings  have  said ; 

Bleeding,  dishonored,  flung  apart 
In  outcast  field  a  man  lies  dead 

With  rose-leaves  warm  upon  his  heart. 


A    WOMAN'S  BATTLE.  15 


A  WOMAN'S   BATTLE. 

EAR  foe,  I  know  thou  'It  win  the  fight. 

I  know  thou  hast  the  stronger  bark, 
And  thou  art  sailing  in  the  light, 
While  I  am  creeping  in  the  dark. 
Thou  dost  not  dream  that  I  am  crying, 
As  I  come  up  with  colors  flying. 

I  clear  away  my  wounded,  slain, 

With  strength  like  frenzy,  strong  and  swift ; 
I  do  not  feel  the  tug  and  strain, 

Though  dead  are  heavy,  hard  to  lift. 
If  I  looked  in  their  faces  dying, 
I  could  not  keep  my  colors  flying. 

Dear  foe,  it  will  be  short,  —  our  fight,  — 
Though  lazily  thou  train'st  thy  guns ; 

Fate  steers  us,  —  me  to  deeper  night, 
And  thee  to  briyhier  seas  and  suns  ; 

But  thou  'It  not  dream  that  I  am  dying, 

As  I  sail  by  with  colors  flying  ! 


1 6  ESTHER. 


ESTHER. 

FACE  more  vivid  than  he  dreamed  who 

drew 

Thy  portrait  in  that  thrilling  tale  of  old  ! 
Dead  queen,  we  see  thee  still,  thy  beauty  cold 
As  beautiful ;  thy  dauntless  heart  which  knew 
No  fear,  —  not  even  of  a  king  who  slew 
At  pleasure  ;  maiden  heart  which  was  not  sold, 
Though  all  the  maiden  flesh  the  king's  red  gold 
Did  buy  !     The  loyal  daughter  of  the  Jew, 
No  hour  saw  thee  forget  his  misery ; 
Thou  wert  not  queen  until  thy  race  went  free ; 
Yet  thoughtful  hearts,  that  ponder  slow  and  deep, 
Find  doubtful  reverence  at  last  for  thee  ; 
Thou  heldest  thy  race  too  dear,  thyself  too  cheap  ; 
Honor  no  second  place  for  truth  can  keep. 


VASHTL  17 


VASHTI. 


N  all  great  Shushan's  palaces  was  there 
Not  one,    O   Vashti,   knowing  thee   so 

well, 

Poor  uncrowned  queen,  that  he  the  world  could  tell 
How  thou  wert  pure  and  loyal-souled  as  fair? 
How  it  was  love  which  made  thee  bold  to  dare 
Refuse  the  shame  which  madmen  would  compel? 
Not  one,  who  saw  the  bitter  tears  that  fell 
And  heard  thy  cry  heart-rending  on  the  air : 
"Ah  me  !     My  Lord  could   not  this  thing   have 

meant ! 

He  well  might  loathe  me  ever,  if  I  go 
Before  these  drunken  princes  as  a  show. 
I  am  his  queen  :  I  come  of  king's  descent. 
I  will  not  let  him  bring  our  crown  so  low ; 
He  will  but  bless  me  when  he  doth  repent !  " 


1 8  BURNT  OFFERING. 


BURNT  OFFERING. 

•* 

HE  fire  leaped  up,  swift,  hot,  and  red ; 
Swift,  hot,  and  red,  waiting  a  prey ; 
The  woman  came  with  swift,  light  tread, 
And  silently  knelt  down  to  lay 
Armfuls  of  leaves  upon  the  fire, 
As  men  lay  fagots  on  a  pyre. 

Armfuls  of  leaves  which  had  been  bright 
Like  painter's  tints  six  months  before, 

All  faded  now,  a  ghastly  sight, 
Dusty  and  colorless,  she  bore, 

And  knelt  and  piled  them  on  the  fire, 

As  men  lay  fagots  on  the  pyre. 

Watching  the  crackle  and  the  blaze, 

Idly  I  smiled  and  idly  said  : 
"  Good-by,  dead  leaves,  go  dead  leaves'  ways. 

Next  year  there  will  be  more  as  red." 
The  woman  turned,  and  from  the  fire 
Looked  up  as  from  a  funeral-pyre. 


BURNT  OFFERING.  19 

I  saw  my  idle  words  had  been 

Far  crueler  than  I  could  know, 
And  made  an  old  wound  bleed  again. 

"These  are  not  leaves,"  she  whispered  low, 
"  That  I  am  burning  in  the  fire, 
But  days,  —  it  is  a  funeral  pyre." 


2O  BON  VOYAGE. 


BON  VOYAGE. 

HERE  'S  not  an  hour  but  from  some  spark 
ling  beach 

Go  joyful  men,  in  fragile  ships  to  sail, 
By  unknown  seas  to  unknown  lands.     They  hail 
The  freshening  winds  with  eager  hope,  and  speech 
Of  wondrous  countries  which  they  soon  will  reach. 
Left  on  the  shore,  we  wave  our  hands,  with  pale, 
Wet  cheeks,  but  hearts  that  are  ashamed  to  quail, 
Or  own  the  grief  which  selfishness  would  teach. 
O  Death,  the  fairest  lands  beyond  thy  sea 
Lie  waiting,  and  thy  barks  are  swift  and  stanch 
And  ready.     Why  do  we  reluctant  launch? 
And  when  our  friends  their  heritage  have  claimed 
Of  thee,  and  entered  on  it,  rich  and  free, 
Oh,  why  are  we  of  sorrow  not  ashamed  ? 


NEW  YEAR'S  MORNING.  21 


NEW  YEAR'S  MORNING. 

JNLY  a  night  from  old  to  new  ! 

Only  a  night,  and  so  much  wrought  1 
The  Old  Year's  heart  all  weary  grew, 
But  said  :  "  The  New  Year  rest  has  brought." 
The  Old  Year's  heart  its  hopes  laid  down, 
As  in  a  grave  ;  but,  trusting,  said  : 
"  The  blossoms  of  the  New  Year's  crown 
Bloom  from  the  ashes  of  the  dead." 
The  Old  Year's  heart  was  full  of  greed ; 
With  selfishness  it  longed  and  ached, 
And  cried  :  "  I  have  not  half  I  need. 
My  thirst  is  bitter  and  unslaked. 
But  to  the  New  Year's  generous  hand 
All  gifts  in  plenty  shall  return  ; 
True  loving  it  shall  understand  ; 
By  all  my  failures  it  shall  learn. 
1  have  been  reckless ;  it  shall  be 
Quiet  and  calm  and  pure  of  life. 
I  was  a  slave  ;  it  shall  go  free, 
And  find  sweet  peace  where  I  leave  strife." 


22  NEW  YEAR'S  MORNING, 

Only  a  night  from  old  to  new  ! 
Never  a  night  such  changes  brought. 
The  Old  Year  had  its  work  to  do ; 
No  New  Year  miracles  are  wrought. 

Always  a  night  from  old  to  new  ! 

Night  and  the  healing  balm  of  sleep  ! 

Each  morn  is  New  Year's  morn  come  true, 

Morn  of  a  festival  to  keep. 

All  nights  are  sacred  nights  to  make 

Confession  and  resolve  and  prayer ; 

All  days  are  sacred  days  to  wake 

New  gladness  in  the  sunny  air. 

Only  a  night  from  old  to  new ; 

Only  a  sleep  from  night  to  morn. 

The  new  is  but  the  old  come  true ; 

Each  sunrise  sees  a  new  year  born. 


JANUARY.  23 


JANUARY. 

WINTER  !  frozen  pulse  and  heart  of  fire, 
What  loss  is  theirs  who  from  thy  kingdom 

turn 

Dismayed,  and  think  thy  snow  a  sculptured  urn 
Of  death  !     Far  sooner  in  midsummer  tire 
The  streams  than  under  ice.     June  could  not  hire 
Her  roses  to  forego  the  strength  they  learn 
In  sleeping  on  thy  breast.     No  fires  can  burn 
The  bridges  thou  dost  lay  where  men  desire 
In  vain  to  build. 

O  Heart,  when  Love's  sun  goes 
To  northward,  and  the  sounds  of  singing  cease, 
Keep  warm  by  inner  fires,  and  rest  in  peace. 
Sleep  on  content,  as  sleeps  the  patient  rose. 
Walk  boldly  on  the  white  untrodden  snows, 
The  winter  is  the  winter's  own  release. 


24  FEBRUARY. 


FEBRUARY. 

TILL  lie  the  sheltering  snows,  undimmed 

and  white  ; 
And  reigns  the  winter's  pregnant  silence 

still ; 

No  sign  of  spring,  save  that  the  catkins  fill, 
And  willow  stems  grow  daily  red  and  bright. 
These  are  the  days  when  ancients  held  a  rite 
Of  expiation  for  the  old  year's  ill, 
And  prayer  to  purify  the  new  year's  will : 
Fit  days,  ere  yet  the  spring  rains  blur  the  sight, 
Ere  yet  the  bounding  blood  grows  hot  with  haste, 
And  dreaming  thoughts  grow  heavy  with  a  greed 
The  ardent  summer's  joy  to  have  and  taste ; 
Fit  days,  to  give  to  last  year's  losses  heed, 
To  reckon  clear  the  new  life's  sterner  need ; 
Fit  days,  for  Feast  of  Expiation  placed  ! 


MARCH.  25 


MARCH. 

ONTH  which  the  warring  ancients  strangely 

styled 
The  month  of  war,  —  as  if  in  their  fierce 

ways 

Were  any  month  of  peace  !  —  in  thy  rough  days 
I  find  no  war  in  Nature,  though  the  wild 
Winds  clash  and  clang,  and  broken  boughs  are  piled 
At  feet  of  writhing  trees.     The  violets  raise 
Their  heads  without  affright,  without  amaze, 
And  sleep  through  all  the  din,  as  sleeps  a  child. 
And  he  who  watches  well  may  well  discern 
Sweet  expectation  in  each  living  thing. 
Like  pregnant  mother  the  sweet  earth  doth  yearn ; 
In  secret  joy  makes  ready  for  the  spring  ; 
And  hidden,  sacred,  in  her  breast  doth  bear 
Annunciation  lilies  for  the  year. 


26  APRIL. 


APRIL. 

O  days  such  honored  days  as  these  !    While 

yet 

Fair  Aphrodite  reigned,  men  seeking  wide 
For  some  fair  thing  which  should  forever  bide 
On  earth,  her  beauteous  memory  to  set 
In  fitting  frame  that  no  age  could  forget, 
Her  name  in  lovely  April's  name  did  hide, 
And  leave  it  there,  eternally  allied 
To  all  the  fairest  flowers  Spring  did  beget. 
And  when  fair  Aphrodite  passed  from  earth, 
Her  shrines  forgotten  and  her  feasts  of  mirth, 
A  holier  symbol  still  in  seal  and  sign, 
Sweet  April  took,  of  kingdom  most  divine, 
When  Christ  ascended,  in  the  time  of  birth 
Of  spring  anemones,  in  Palestine. 


MAY.  27 


MAY. 

MONTH  when  they  who  love  must  love 

and  wed  ! 
Were  one  to  go  to  worlds  where  May  is 

naught, 

And  seek  to  tell  the  memories  he  had  brought 
From  earth  of  thee,  what  were  most  fitly  said  ? 
I  know  not  if  the  rosy  showers  shed 
From  apple-boughs,  or  if  the  soft  green  wrought 
In  fields,  or  if  the  robin's  call  be  fraught 
The  most  with  thy  delight.     Perhaps  they  read 
Thee  best  who  in  the  ancient  time  did  say 
Thou  wert  the  sacred  month  unto  the  old  : 
No  blossom  blooms  upon  thy  brightest  day 
So  subtly  sweet  as  memories  which  unfold 
In  aged  hearts  which  in  thy  sunshine  lie, 
To  sun  themselves  once  more  before  they  die. 


28  JUNE. 


JUNE. 

MONTH  whose  promise  and  fulfilment 

blend, 
And  burst  in  one  !  it  seems  the  earth  can 

store 

In  all  her  roomy  house  no  treasure  more  ; 
Of  all  her  wealth  no  farthing  have  to  spend 
On  fruit,  when  once  this  stintless  flowering  end. 
And  yet  no  tiniest  flower  shall  fall  before 
It  hath  made  ready  at  its  hidden  core 
Its  tithe  of  seed,  which  we  may  count  and  tend 
Till  harvest.     Joy  of  blossomed  love,  for  thee 
Seems  it  no  fairer  thing  can  yet  have  birth? 
No  room  is  left  for  deeper  ecstasy  ? 
Watch  well  if  seeds  grow  strong,  to  scatter  free 
Germs  for  thy  future  summers  on  the  earth. 
A  joy  which  is  but  joy  soon  comes  to  dearth. 


JULY.  29 


JULY. 

jOME  flowers  are  withered  and  some  joys 

have  died ; 
The  garden  reeks  with  an  East  Indian 

scent 

From  beds  where  gillyflowers  stand  weak  and  spent ; 
The  white  heat  pales  the  skies  from  side  to  side ; 
But  in  still  lakes  and  rivers,  cool,  content, 
Like  starry  blooms  on  a  new  firmament, 
White  lilies  float  and  regally  abide. 
In  vain  the  cruel  skies  their  hot  rays  shed ; 
The  lily  does  not  feel  their  brazen  glare. 
In  vain  the  pallid  clouds  refuse  to  share 
Their  dews ;  the  lily  feels  no  thirst,  no  dread. 
Unharmed  she  lifts  her  queenly  face  and  head ; 
She  drinks  of  living  waters  and  keeps  fair. 


AUGUST. 


AUGUST. 

J.ILENCE  again.     The  glorious  symphony 
Hath  need  of  pause  and  interval  of  peace. 
Some  subtle  signal  bids  all  sweet  sounds 
cease, 

Save  hum  of  insects'  aimless  industry. 

Pathetic  summer  seeks  by  blazonry 

Of  color  to  conceal  her  swift  decrease. 

Weak  subterfuge  !     Each  mocking  day  doth  fleece 

A  blossom,  and  lay  bare  her  poverty. 

Poor  middle-aged  summer  !     Vain  this  show  ! 

Whole  fields  of  golden-rod  cannot  offset 

One  meadow  with  a  single  violet ; 

And  well  the  singing  thrush  and  lily  know, 

Spite  of  all  artifice  which  her  regret 

Can  deck  in  splendid  guise,  their  time  to  go  ! 


SEPTEMBER.  3 1 


SEPTEMBER. 

GOLDEN  month  !     How  high  thy  gold 

is  heaped  ! 
The  yellow  birch-leaves  shine  like  bright 

coins  strung 

On  wands ;  the  chestnut's  yellow  pennons  tongue 
To  every  wind  its  harvest  challenge.     Steeped 
In  yellow,  still  lie  fields  where  wheat  was  reaped  ; 
And  yellow  still  the  corn  sheaves,  stacked  among 
The  yellow  gourds,  which  from  the  earth  have  wrung 
Her  utmost  gold.     To  highest  boughs  have  leaped 
The  purple  grape,  —  last  thing  to  ripen,  late 
By  very  reason  of  its  precious  cost. 
O  Heart,  remember,  vintages  are  lost 
If  grapes  do  not  for  freezing  night-dews  wait. 
Think,  while  thou  sunnest  thyself  in  Joy's  estate, 
Mayhap  thou  canst  not  ripen  without  frost ! 


32  OCTOBER. 


OCTOBER. 

HE  month  of  carnival  of  all  the  year, 
When  Nature  lets  the  wild  earth  go  its  way, 
And  spend  whole  seasons  on  a  single  day. 
The  spring-time  holds  her  white  and  purple  dear ; 
October,  lavish,  flaunts  them  far  and  near ; 
The  summer  charily  her  reds  doth  lay 
Like  jewels  on  her  costliest  array ; 
October,  scornful,  burns  them  on  a  bier. 
The  winter  hoards  his  pearls  of  frost  in  sign 
Of  kingdom  :  whiter  pearls  than  winter  knew, 
Or  Empress  wore,  in  Egypt's  ancient  line, 
October,  feasting  'neath  her  dome  of  blue, 
Drinks  at  a  single  draught,  slow  filtered  through 
Sunshiny  air,  as  in  a  tingling  wine  ! 


NOVEMBER.  33 


NOVEMBER. 

|HIS  is  the  treacherous  month  when  autumn 

days 

With  summer's  voice  come  bearing  sum 
mer's  gifts. 

Beguiled,  the  pale  down-trodden  aster  lifts 
Her  head  and  blooms  again.     The  soft,  warm  haze 
Makes  moist  once  more  the  sere  and  dusty  ways, 
And,  creeping  through  where  dead  leaves  lie  in  drifts, 
The  violet  returns.     Snow  noiseless  sifts 
Ere  night,  an  icy  shroud,  which  morning's  rays 
Will  idly  shine  upon  and  slowly  melt, 
Too  late  to  bid  the  violet  live  again. 
The  treachery,  at  last,  too  late,  is  plain  ; 
Bare  are  the  places  where  the  sweet  flowers  dwelt. 
What  joy  sufficient  hath  November  felt  ? 
What  profit  from  the  violet's  day  of  pain  ? 


34  DECEMBER. 


DECEMBER. 

HE  lakes  of  ice  gleam  bluer  than  the  lakes 
Of  water   'neath   the   summer   sunshine 

gleamed : 

Far  fairer  than  when  placidly  it  streamed, 
The  brook  its  frozen  architecture  makes, 
And  under  bridges  white  its  swift  way  takes. 
Snow  comes  and  goes  as  messenger  who  dreamed 
Might  linger  on  the  road  ;  or  one  who  deemed 
His  message  hostile  gently  for  their  sakes 
Who  listened  might  reveal  it  by  degrees. 
We  gird  against  the  cold  of  winter  wind 
Our  loins  now  with  mighty  bands  of  sleep, 
In  longest,  darkest  nights  take  rest  and  ease, 
And  every  shortening  day,  as  shadows  creep 
O'er  the  brief  noontide,  fresh  surprises  find. 


REFRAIN.  35 


REFRAIN. 

F  all  the  songs  which  poets  sing, 

The  ones  which  are  most  sweet, 
Are  those  which  at  close  intervals 
A  low  refrain  repeat ; 
Some  tender  word,  some  syllable, 
Over  and  over,  ever  and  ever, 
While  the  song  lasts, 

Altering  never, 
Music  if  sung,  music  if  said, 
Subtle  like  some  fine  golden  thread 

A  shuttle  casts, 
In  and  out  on  a  fabric  red, 
Till  it  glows  all  through 
With  the  golden  hue. 
Oh  !  of  all  the  songs  sung, 

No  songs  are  so  sweet 
As  the  songs  with  refrains, 
Which  repeat  and  repeat. 

Of  all  the  lives  lived, 
No  life  is  so  sweet, 


36  REFRAIN. 

As  the  life  where  one  thought, 

In  refrain  doth  repeat, 
Over  and  over,  ever  and  ever, 

Till  the  life  ends, 

Altering  never, 

Joy  which  is  felt,  but  is  not  said, 
Subtler  than  any  golden  thread 

Which  the  shuttle  sends 
In  and  out  in  a  fabric  red, 

Till  it  glows  all  through 

With  a  golden  hue. 
Oh  !  of  all  the  lives  lived, 

Can  be  no  life  so  sweet 
As  the  life  where  one  thought 

In  refrain  doth  repeat. 


"  Now  name  me  a  thought 

To  make  life  so  sweet, 
A  thought  of  such  joy 

Its  refrain  to  repeat." 
Oh  !  foolish  to  ask  me.     Ever,  ever 

Who  loveth  believes, 

But  telleth  never. 

It  might  be  a  name,  just  a  name  not  said, 
But  in  every  thought ;  like  a  golden  thread 

Which  the  shuttle  weaves 

In  and  out  on  a  fabric  red, 


REFRAIN.  37 

Till  it  glows  all  through 

With  a  golden  hue. 
Oh  !  of  all  sweet  lives, 

Who  can  tell  how  sweet 
Is  the  life  which  one  name 

In  refrain  doth  repeat  ? 


38  TO  AN  ABSENT  LOVER. 


TO   AN   ABSENT   LOVER. 

HAT  so  much  change  should  come  when 
thou  dost  go, 

Is  mystery  that  I  cannot  ravel  quite. 

The  very  house  seems  dark  as  when  the  light 

Of  lamps  goes  out.     Each  wonted  thing  doth  grow 

So  altered,  that  I  wander  to  and  fro 

Bewildered  by  the  most  familiar  sight, 

And  feel  like  one  who  rouses  in  the  night 

From  dream  of  ecstasy,  and  cannot  know 

At  first  if  he  be  sleeping  or  awake. 

My  foolish  heart  so  foolish  for  thy  sake 

Hath  grown,  dear  one  ! 

Teach  me  to  be  more  wise. 
I  blush  for  all  my  foolishness  doth  lack ; 
I  fear  to  seem  a  coward  in  thine  eyes. 
Teach  me,  dear  one,  —  but  first  thou  must 

come  back  1 


CROSSED    THREADS.  39 


CROSSED  THREADS. 

HE   silken   threads    by  viewless    spinners 

spun, 

Which  float  so  idly  on  the  summer  air, 
And  help  to  make  each  summer  morning  fair, 
Shining  like  silver  in  the  summer  sun, 
Are  caught  by  wayward  breezes,  one  by  one, 
And  blown  to  east  and  west  and  fastened  there, 
Weaving  on  all  the  roads  their  sudden  snare. 
No  sign  which  road  doth  safest,  freest  run, 
The  winged  insects  know,  that  soar  so  gay 
To  meet  their  death  upon  each  summer  day. 
How  dare  we  any  human  deed  arraign  ; 
Attempt  to  reckon  any  moment's  cost ;   , 
Or  any  pathway  trust  as  safe  and  plain 
Because  we  see  not  where  the  threads  have  crossed  ? 


40  OUTWARD  BOUND. 


OUTWARD   BOUND. 

HE   hour  has   come.     Strong   hands   the 

anchor  raise ; 
Friends  stand  and  weep  along  the  fading 

shore, 

In  sudden  fear  lest  we  return  no  more, 
In  sudden  fancy  that  he  safer  stays 
Who  stays  behind ;  that  some  new  danger  lays 
New  snare  in  each  fresh  path  untrod  before. 
Ah,  foolish  hearts  !  in  fate's  mysterious  lore 
Is  written  no  such  choice  of  plan  and  days  : 
Each  hour  has  its  own  peril  and  escape ; 
In  most  familiar  things'  familiar  shape 
New  danger  comes  without  or  sight  or  sound ; 
No  sea  more  foreign  rolls  than  breaks  each  morn 
Across  our  thresholds  when  the  day  is  born  : 
We  sail,  at  sunrise,  daily,  "  outward  bound." 


SEALED  ORDERS.  41 


SEALED   ORDERS. 

[HEN  ship  with  "orders  sealed"  sails  out 

to  sea, 

Men  eager  crowd  the  wharves,  and  rev 
erent  gaze 

Upon  their  faces  whose  brave  spirits  raise 
No  question  if  the  unknown  voyage  be 
Of  deadly  peril.     Benedictions  free 
And  prayers  and  tears  are  given,  and  the  days 
Counted  till  other  ships,  on  homeward  ways, 
May  bring  back  message  of  her  destiny. 
Yet,  all  the  time,  Life's  tossing  sea  is  white 
With  scudding  sails  which  no  man  reefs  or  stays 
By  his  own  will,  for  roughest  day  or  night : 
Brave,  helpless  crews,  with  captain  out  of  sight, 
Harbor  unknown,  voyage  of  long  delays, 
They  meet  no  other  ships  on  homeward  ways. 


42  TWO. 


TWO. 


APART. 

NE  place  —  one  roof —  one  name  —  their 

daily  bread 

In  daily  sacrament  they  break 
Together,  and  together  take 
Perpetual  counsel,  such  as  use  has  fed 
The  habit  of,  in  words  which  make 
No  lie.     For  courtesy's  sweet  sake 
And  pity's,  one  brave  heart  whose  joy  is  dead, 
Smiles  ever,  answering  words  which  wake 
But  weariness  ;  hides  all  its  ache,  — 
Its  hopeless  ache,  its  longing  and  its  dread ; 
Strong  as  a  martyr  at  the  stake 
Renouncing  self;  striving  to  slake 
The  pangs  of  thirst  on  bitter  hyssop  red 
With  vinegar  !     O  brave,  strong  heart ! 
God  sets  all  days,  all  hours  apart, 
Joy  cometh  at  his  hour  appointed. 


TWO.  43 

ii. 

TOGETHER. 

No  touch  —  no  sight  —  no  sound  —  wide  continents 

And  seas  clasp  hands  to  separate 

Them  from  each  other  now.     Too  late  ! 

Triumphant  Love  has  leagued  the  elements 

To  do  their  will.     Hath  light  a  mate 

For  swiftness  ?     Can  it  overweight 

The  air?     Or  doth  the  sun  know  accidents? 

The  light,  the  air,  the  sun,  inviolate 

For  them,  do  constant  keep  and  state 

Message  of  their  ineffable  contents 

And  raptures,  each  in  each.     So  great 

Their  bliss  of  loving,  even  fate 

In  parting  them,  hath  found  no  instruments 

Whose  bitter  pain  insatiate 

Doth  kill  it,  or  their  faith  abate 

In  presence  of  Love's  hourly  sacraments. 


44  THE   GIFT  OF  GRAPES. 


THE   GIFT   OF   GRAPES. 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  FOURTH  CENTURY. 

|g|  HE  desert  sun  was  sinking  red  ; 

Hot  as  at  noon  the  light  was  shed. 


Bareheaded,  on  the  scorching  sands, 
Macarius  knelt  with  clasped  hands, 

And  prayed,  as  he  had  prayed  for  years, 
With  smitings  and  with  bitter  tears. 

"  Good  hermit,  here  !  "  —  a  hand  outstretched, — 
It  was  as  if  an  angel  fetched 

The  purple  clusters,  dewy  blue,  — 

"  Good  hermit,  here  !     These  grapes  for  you  !  " 

Swift  swept  the  rider  by.     The  grapes 
Lay  at  the  hermit's  feet.     "  Like  shapes 

"  Of  magic,  sent  to  tempt  my  sense," 
Macarius  thought.     "  Sathanas,  hence  !  " 


THE   GIFT  OF  GRAPES.  45 

He  cried.     "  I  will  not  touch  nor  taste. 
Yet,  were  it  not  wrong  such  fruit  to  waste?  " 

He  paused.     "  I  '11  leave  it  at  his  door, 
My  neighbor,  who  with  illness  sore 

"  Is  like  to  die.     He  may  partake, 
And  sin  not.     Ay,  for  Jesus'  sake, 

"  I  will  his  dying  lips  beseech, 
Command,  as  if  I  were  his  leech." 

Thus  speaking,  tre.mbling  as  he  spoke, 
Such  parched  desire  within  him  woke, 

To  taste  the  grapes,  he  swiftly  ran, 
And,  kneeling  by  the  dying  man, 

Held  up  the  clusters,  crying,  "  See, 
O  brother  !  these  were  given  me. 

"  I  may  not  eat  them  ;  I  am  strong ; 
But  thou  —  it  were  for  thee  no  wrong. 

"  Thy  fever  they  will  cool,  allay  ; 
Thy  failing  strength  revive  and  stay." 

Reproachful  turned  the  dying  eyes, 
The  whispers  came  like  dying  sighs : 


46  THE   GIFT  OF  GRAPES. 

"  Brother,  thou  mightst  do  better  deed 
Than  tempt  the  dying  in  his  need. 

"  Thy  words  are  but  the  devil's  mesh, 
To  snare  at  last  my  carnal  flesh." 

Silent,  Macarius  went  his  way. 
Untouched  the  purple  clusters  lay 

Beside  the  dying  hermit's  bed. 

They  found  them  there  who  found  him  dead,  — 

Two  brother  hermits  who  each  morn, 
Water  and  bread  to  him  had  borne. 

"  He  drinks  of  living  waters  now," 
They  pious  said,  and  smoothed  his  brow, 

And  prayed,  and  laid  him  in  the  ground, 
Envying  the  rest  he  had  found. 

The  purple  grapes  still  lying  there, 
Filled  with  sweet  scent  the  desert  air. 

"  Where  could  these  luscious  clusters  grow?  " 
"  He  tasted  not,"  they  whispered  low  ; 

"  But  fairer  fruit  glads  now  his  eyes  : 
He  feasts  to-day  in  paradise." 


THE   GIFT  OF  GRAPES.  47 

On  each  a  longing  silence  fell. 

"  Brother,  they  tempt  our  souls  to  hell  ! " 

Cried  one.     The  other  :  "  Ay,  how  weak 
Our  flesh  !     Strange  that  so  long  we  seek 

"  In  vain  to  dull  its  carnal  sense. 
Brother,  we  '11  bear  these  clusters  hence. 

"  That  aged  hermit,  in  the  cave, 
Perchance  these  grapes  his  life  might  save. 

"  Thou  knowest,  but  yesterday  't  was  said 
He  starves  ;  eats  neither  pulse  nor  bread." 

Slow  braiding  baskets,  in  his  door 
The  aged  hermit  sat,  his  store 

Of  rushes  and  his  water-jar 

In  reach.     He  heard  their  steps  afar, 

And,  as  they  nearer  drew,  up-raised 
His  well-nigh  sightless  eyes,  and  gazed 

Bewilderedly.     "  Eat,  father,  eat !  " 
The  brothers  cried,  and  at  his  feet, 

Rev'rent,  the  purple  clusters  laid. 
Trembling,  but  stern,  the  right  hand  made 


48  THE   GIFT  OF  GRAPES. 

Swift  gesture  of  reproof.     "  Away  !  " 
In  feeble  voice  he  cried,  "  and  pray 

"  To  be  forgiven  !     Heinous  sin 
Is  his  who  lets  temptation  in." 

Meek-bowed,  the  brothers  turned  to  go. 
"  Stay  ! "  said  the  hermit,  whispering  low : 

"  Leave  them  not  here  to  tempt  my  sight. 
I  may  not  eat.     Some  other  might. 

"  As  each  man  thinketh  in  his  heart, 
So  must  he  reckon  duty's  part. 

"  Mayhap  some  brother,  in  sore  strait, 
Even  this  hour  doth  sit  and  wait, 

"  To  whom  God  sends  these  clusters  sweet 
By  your  pure  hands.     Be  true  !     Be  fleet !  " 

From  cave  to  cave,  from  cell  to  cell, 
The  brothers  did  their  errand  well. 

In  Nitria's  desert,  hermits  then 
By  scores  were  dwelling,  holy  men, 

Mistaken  saints,  who  thought  to  save 
Their  souls,  by  making  life  a  grave. 


THE   GIFT  OF  GRAPES.  49 

From  cave  to  cave,  from  cell  to  cell, 
The  brothers  did  their  errand  well. 

At  every  hermit's  feet  they  laid 

The  tempting  grapes,  in  vain,  nor  stayed 

Till,  at  the  desert's  utmost  bound, 
Macarius's  cell  they  joyful  found,  — 

Macarius,  oldest,  holiest  saint 
Of  all  the  desert.     Weary,  faint, 

They  knelt  before  him.     "  Father,  see 
These  grapes  !  they  must  be  meant  for  thee  ! 

"  These  many  days  we  bear  them  now ; 
And  yet  they  do  not  withered  grow. 

"  No  brother  will  so  much  as  taste. 
'T  was  Isidore  who  bade  us  haste 

"  To  find  the  man  to  whom  God  sent 
The  luscious  gift.     They  must  be  meant 

"  For  thee.     Thou  art  the  last."     "  Ay,"  said 
The  good  Macarius,  flushing  red 

With  holy  joy,  —  "  Ay  ;  meant  for  me, 
As  token  of  the  constancy 

4 


50  THE  GIFT  OF  GRAPES. 

"  Of  all  our  brothers  !     Blessed  day 
Is  this,  my  brothers  !     Go  your  way  ! 

"  Christ  fill  your  souls  with  lasting  peace  ! 
The  time  is  near  of  my  release." 

Then,  kneeling  on  the  scorching  sands, 

He  stretched  toward  heaven  his  clasped  hands, 

And  prayed,  as  he  had  prayed  for  years, 
With  smitings  and  with  bitter  tears. 

Untouched,  the  grapes  lay  glowing  there, 
Filling  with  scent  the  desert  air. 


AVALANCHES.  51 


AVALANCHES. 

HEART  that  on  Love's  sunny  height  doth 

dwell, 

And  joy  unquestioning  by  day,  by  night, 
Serene  in  trust  because  the  skies  are  bright  ! 
Listen  to  what  all  Alpine  records  tell 
Of  days  on  which  the  avalanches  fell. 
Not  days  of  storm  when  men  were  pale  with  fright, 
And  watched  the  hills  with  anxious,  straining  sight, 
And  heard  in  every  sound  a  note  of  knell ; 
But  when  in  heavens  still,  and  blue,  and  clear, 
The  sun  rode  high,  —  those  were  the  hours  to  fear. 
And  so  the  monks  of  San  Bernard  to-day,  — 
May  the  Lord  count  their  souls  and  hold  them  dear, — 
When  skies  are  cloudless,  in  their  convent  stay, 
And  for  the  souls  of  dead  and  dying  pray. 


52  A    WOMAN'S  DEATH-WOUND. 


A   WOMAN'S   DEATH-WOUND. 

T  left  upon  her  tender  flesh  no  trace. 
The  murderer  is  safe.     As  swift  as  light 
The  weapon  fell,  and,  in  the  summer  night, 
Did  scarce  the  silent,  dewy  air  displace  ; 
'T  was  but  a  word.     A  blow  had  been  less  base. 
Like  dumb  beast  branded  by  an  iron  white 
With  heat,  she  turned  in  blind  and  helpless  flight, 
But  then  remembered,  and  with  piteous  face 
Came  back. 

Since  then,  the  world  has  nothing  missed 
In  her,  in  voice  or  smile.     But  she  —  each  day 
She  counts  until  her  dying  be  complete. 
One  moan  she  makes,  and  ever  doth  repeat : 
"  O  lips  that  I  have  loved  and  kissed  and  kissed, 
Did  I  deserve  to  die  this  bitterest  way  ?  " 


CHANCE.  53 


CHANCE. 

HESE  things  I  wondering  saw  beneath  the 

sun : 

That  never  yet  the  race  was  to  the  swift, 
The  fight  unto  the  mightiest  to  lift, 
Nor  favors  unto  men  whose  skill  had  done 
Great  works,  nor  riches  ever  unto  one 
Wise  man  of  understanding.     All  is  drift 
Of  time  and  chance,  and  none  may  stay  or  sift 
Or  know  the  end  of  that  which  is  begun. 
Who  waits  until  the  wind  shall  silent  keep, 
Will  never  find  the  ready  hour  to  sow. 
Who  watcheth  clouds  will  have  no  time  to  reap. 
At  daydawn  plant  thy  seed,  and  be  not  slow 
At  night.     God  doth  not  slumber  take  nor  sleep  : 
Which  seed  shall  prosper  thou  canst  never  know. 


54 


SEPTEMBER. 


SEPTEMBER. 

HE  golden-rod  is  yellow  ; 

The  corn  is  turning  brown ; 
The  trees  in  apple  orchards 
With  fruit  are  bending  down. 


The  gentian's  bluest  fringes 
Are  curling  in  the  sun  ; 

In  dusty  pods  the  milkweed 
Its  hidden  silk  has  spun. 

The  sedges  flaunt  their  harvest, 
In  every  meadow  nook  ; 

And  asters  by  the  brook-side 
Make  asters  in  the  brook. 


From  dewy  lanes  at  morning 
The  grapes'  sweet  odors  rise  ; 

At  noon  the  roads  all  flutter 
With  yellow  butterflies. 


SEPTEMBER.  55 

By  all  these  lovely  tokens 

September  days  are  here, 
With  summer's  best  of  weather, 

And  autumn's  best  of  cheer. 

But  none  of  all  this  beauty 
Which  floods  the  earth  and  air 

Is  unto  me  the  secret 

Which  makes  September  fair. 

'T  is  a  thing  which  I  remember ; 

To  name  it  thrills  me  yet : 
One  day  of  one  September 

I  never  can  forget 


56  APPEAL. 


APPEAL. 

LOVE,  whom  I  so  love,  in  this  sore  strait 
Of  thine,  fall  not !     Below  thy  very  feet 
I  kneel,  so  much  I  reverence  thee,  so 

sweet 

It  is  to  every  pulse  of  mine  to  wait 
Thy  lightest  pleasure,  and  to  bind  my  fate 
To  thine  by  humblest  service.     Incomplete 
All  heaven,  Love,  if  there  thou  dost  not  greet 
Me,  with  perpetual  need  which  I  can  sate, 
I  and  no  other  !     So  I  dare  to  pray 
To  thee  this  prayer.     It  is  not  wholly  prayer. 
The  solemn  worships  of  the  ages  lay 
Even  on  God  a  solemn  bond.     I  dare,  — 
Thy  worshipper,  thy  lowly,  loving  mate,  — 
I  dare  to  say,  O  Love,  thou  must  be  great  !  " 


WRECK.  57 


WRECK. 

[By  the  laws  of  the  Rhodians  divers  were  allowed  a  share 
of  the  wreck  in  proportion  to  the  depth  to  which  they  had 
gone  in  search  of  it.] 

O  many  fathoms  deep  my  sweet  ship  lies, 
No  ripple  marks  the  place.     The   gulls' 

white  wings 
Pause  not ;  the  boatman  idly  sleeps  or  sings, 
Floating  above  ;  and  smile  to  smile,  with  skies 
That  bend  and  shine,  the  sunny  water  vies. 
Too  heavy  freight,  and  of  too  costly  things, 
My  sweet  ship  bore.     No  tempest's  mutterings 
Warned  me  ;  but  in  clear  noon,  before  my  eyes 
She  sudden  faltered,  rocked,  and  with  each  sail 
Full  set,  went  down  ! 

O  Heart !  in  diver's  mail 

Wrap  thee.     Breathe  not  till,  standing  on  her  deck, 
Thou  has  confronted  all  thy  loss  and  wreck. 
Poor  coward  Heart  !  —  thou  darest  not  plunge  ?  — 

For  thee 
There  lies  no  other  pearl  in  any  sea. 


58  THE  HEART  OF  A  ROSE. 


THE   HEART   OF   A   ROSE. 

ROSE  like  a  hollow  cup  with  a  brim,  — 
A  brim  as  pink  as  the  after-glow ; 
Deep  down  in  its  heart  gold  stamens  swim, 
Tremble  and  swim  in  a  sea  of  snow. 

My  Love  set  it  safe  in  a  crystal  glass, 

Gently  as  petals  float  down  at  noon. 

Low,  in  a  whisper,  my  Love's  voice  said  : 

"  Look  quick  !     In  an  hour  it  will  be  dead. 

I  picked  it  because  it  will  die  so  soon. 

Now  listen,  dear  Heart,  as  the  seconds  pass, 

What  the  rose  will  say,"  my  Love's  voice  said. 

I  look  and  I  listen.     The  flushed  pink  brim 
Is  still  as  June's  warmest  after-glow ; 
Silent  as  stars  the  gold  stamens  swim, 
Tremble  and  swim  in  their  sea  of  snow. 
I  dare  not  breathe  on  the  crystal  glass, 
Lest  one  sweet  petal  should  fall  too  soon. 
False  was  the  whisper  my  Love's  voice  said,  — 
If  he  had  not  picked  it,  it  had  been  dead ; 
But  now  it  will  live  an  eternal  noon, 
And  I  shall  hear  as  the  seconds  pass 
What  the  rose  will  say  till  I  am  dead. 


ACQUAINTED   WITH  GRIEF.  59 


ACQUAINTED   WITH   GRIEF. 

know  Grief  well?     Hast  known  her 

long? 

So  long,  that  not  with  gift  or  smile, 
Or  gliding  footstep  in  the  throng, 
She  can  deceive  thee  by  her  guile  ? 

So  long,  that  with  unflinching  eyes 

Thou  smilest  to  thyself  apart, 
To  watch  each  flimsy,  fresh  disguise 

She  plans  to  stab  anew  thy  heart? 

So  long,  thou  barrest  up  no  door 

To  stay  the  coming  of  her  feet  ? 
So  long,  thou  answerest  no  more, 

Lest  in  her  ear  thy  cry  be  sweet  ? 

Dost  know  the  voice  in  which  she  says, 
"  No  more  henceforth  our  paths  divide  ; 

In  loneliest  nights,  in  crowded  days, 
I  am  forever  by  thy  side  "  ? 


60  ACQUAINTED    WITH  GRIEF. 

Then  dost  thou  know,  perchance,  the  spell 
The  gods  laid  on  her  at  her  birth,  — 

The  viewless  gods  who  mingle  well 
Strange  love  and  hate  of  us  on  earth. 

Weapon  and  time,  the  hour,  the  place, 
All  these  are  hers  to  take,  to  choose, 

To  give  us  neither  rest  nor  grace, 
Not  one  heart-throb  to  miss  or  lose. 

All  these  are  hers ;  yet  stands  she,  slave, 
Helpless  before  our  one  behest : 

The  gods,  that  we  be  shamed  not,  gave, 
And  locked  the  secret  in  our  breast. 

She  to  the  gazing  world  must  bear 
Our  crowns  of  triumph,  if  we  bid ; 

Loyal  and  mute,  our  colors  wear, 
Sign  of  her  own  forever  hid. 

Smile  to  our  smile,  song  to  our  song, 
With  songs  and  smiles  our  roses  fling, 

Till  men  turn  round  in  every  throng, 
To  note  such  joyous  pleasuring, 

And  ask,  next  morn,  with  eyes  that  lend 
A  fervor  to  the  words  they  say, 

"  What  is  her  name,  that  radiant  friend 
Who  walked  beside  you  yesterday  ?  " 


FEALTY.  6 1 


FEALTY. 

HE  thing  I  count  and  hold  as  fealty  — 
The  only  fealty  to  give  or  take  -»- 
Doth  never  reckoning  keep,  and  coldly 

make 

Bond  to  itself  with  this  or  that  to  be 
Content  as  wage  ;  the  wage  unpaid,  to  free 
Its  hand  from  service,  and  its  love  forsake, 
Its  faith  cast  off,  as  one  from  dreams  might  wake 
At  morn,  and  smiling  watch  the  vision  flee. 
Such  fealty  is  treason  in  disguise. 
Who  trusts  it,  his  death-warrant  sealed  doth  bear. 
Love  looks  at  it  with  angry,  wondering  eyes ; 
Love  knows  the  face  true  fealty  doth  wear, 
The  pulse  that  beats  unchanged  by  alien  air, 
Or  hurts,  or  crimes,  until  the  loved  one  dies. 


62  VISION". 


VISION. 

Y  subtile  secrets  of  discovered  law 

Men  well  have  measured  the  horizon's 

round, 
Kept  record  of  the  speed  of  light  and 

sound, 

Have  close  denned  by  reasoning  without  flaw 
The  utmost  human  vision  ever  saw 
Unaided,  and  have  arrant  sought  and  found 
Devices  countless  to  extend  its  bound. 
Bootless  their  secrets  all !     My  eyes  but  stray 
To  eastward,  and  majestic,  bright,  arise 
Peaks  of  a  range  which  three  days  distant  lies  ! 
And  of  the  faces,  too,  that  light  my  day 
Most  clear,  one  is  a  continent  away, 
The  other  shines  above  the  farthest  skies  ! 


THE  POET'S  FORGE.  63 


THE   POET'S   FORGE. 

* 

[JE  lies  on  his  back,  the  idling  smith, 
A  lazy,  dreaming  fellow  is  he  ; 
The  sky  is  blue,  or  the  sky  is  gray, 
He  lies  on  his  back  the  livelong  day, 
Not  a  tool  in  sight ;  say  what  they  may, 
A  curious  sort  of  a  smith  is  he. 

The  powers  of  the  air  are  in  league  with  him  ; 

The  country  around  believes  it  well ; 
The  wondering  folk  draw  spying  near  ; 
Never  sight  nor  sound  do  they  see  or  hear ; 
No  wonder  they  feel  a  little  fear  ; 

When  is  it  his  work  is  done  so  well  ? 

Never  sight  nor  sound  to  see  or  hear ; 

The  powers  of  the  air  are  in  league  with  him  ; 
High  over  his  head  his  metals  swing, 
Fine  gold  and  silver  to  shame  the  king ; 
We  might  distinguish  their  glittering, 

If  once  we  could  get  in  league  with  him. 


64  THE  POET'S  FORGE. 

High  over  his  head  his  metals  swing ; 

He  hammers  them  idly  year  by  year, 
Hammers  and  chuckles  a  low  refrain  : 
"  A  bench  and  book  are  a  ball  and  chain, 
The  adze  is  better  tool  than  the  plane ; 

What 's  the  odds  between  now  and  next  year  ? 

Hammers  and  chuckles  his  low  refrain, 

A  lazy,  dreaming  fellow  is  he  : 
When  sudden,  some  day,  his  bells  peal  out, 
And  men,  at  the  sound,  for  gladness  shout ; 
He  laughs  and  asks  what  it 's  all  about ; 

Oh,  a  curious  sort  of  smith  is  he  ! 


VANITY  OF  VANITIES.  65 


VANITY   OF   VANITIES. 

EE  to  the  blossom,  moth  to  the  flame  ; 
Each  to  his  passion  ;  what 's  in  a  name  ? 


Red  clover  's  sweetest,  well  the  bee  knows ; 
No  bee  can  suck  it ;  lonely  it  blows. 

Deep  lies  its  honey,  out  of  reach,  deep  ; 
What  use  in  honey  hidden  to  keep  ? 

Robbed  in  the  autumn,  starving  for  bread  ; 
Who  stops  to  pity  a  honey-bee  dead  ? 

Star- flames  are  brightest,  blazing  the  skies  ; 
Only  a  hand's-breadth  the  moth-wing  flies. 

Fooled  with  a  candle,  scorched  with  a  breath ; 
Poor  little  miller,  a  tawdry  death  ! 

Life  is  a  honey,  life  is  a  flame  ; 
Each  to  his  passion  ;  what 's  in  a  name  ? 
5 


66  VANITY  OF   VANITIES. 

Swinging  and  circling,  face  to  the  sun, 
Brief  little  planet,  how  it  doth  run  ! 

Bee-time  and  moth-time,  add  the  amount ; 
White  heat  and  honey,  who  keeps  the  count? 

Gone  some  fine  evening,  a  spark  out-tost ! 
The  world  no  darker  for  one  star  lost ! 

Bee  to  the  blossom,  moth  to  the  flame ; 
Each  to  his  passion  ;  what 's  in  a  name  ? 


MORN.  67 


MORN. 

N  what  a  strange  bewilderment  do  w^ 
Awake   each   morn   from  out   the   brief 

night's  sleep. 
Our   struggling    consciousness    doth    grope   and 

creep 

Its  slow  way  back,  as  if  it.  could  not  free 
Itself  from  bonds  unseen.     Then  Memory, 
Like  sudden  light,  outflashes  from  its  deep 
The  joy  or  grief  which  it  had  last  to  keep 
For  us ;  and  by  the  joy  or  grief  we  see 
The  new  day  dawneth  like  the  yesterday ; 
We  are  unchanged ;  our  life  the  same  we  knew 
Before.     I  wonder  if  this  is  the  way 
We  wake  from  death's  short  sleep,  to  struggle 

through 

A  brief  bewilderment,  and  in  dismay 
Behold  our  life  unto  our  old  life  true. 


68  •       QUATRAINS. 


QUATRAINS. 
THE   MONEY-SEEKER. 


HAT  has  he  in  this  glorious  world's  do 
main  ? 
Unreckoned  loss  which  he  counts  up  for 

gain, 

Unreckoned  shame,  of  which  he  feels  no  stain, 
Unreckoned  dead  he  does  not  know  were  slain. 

What  things  does  he  take  with  him  when  he  dies? 
Nothing  of  all  that  he  on  earth  did  prize  : 
Unto  his  grovelling  feet  and  sordid  eyes 
How  difficult  and  empty  seem  the  skies  ! 

THE   LOVER. 

HE  knows  the  utmost  secret  of  the  earth  : 
The  golden  sunrise's  and  sunset's  worth ; 
The  pregnancy  of  every  blossom's  birth  ; 
The  hidden  name  of  every  creature's  mirth. 


QUATRAINS.  69 

He  knows  all  measures  of  the  pulse's  beat ; 
He  knows  all  pathless  paths  of  human  feet ; 
He  knows  what  angels  know  not  of  the  sweet 
Fulfilments  when  love's  being  is  complete. 

He  knows  all  deadly  soils  where  poisons  bloom  ; 
He  knows  the  fated  road  where  joy  makes  coom 
For  nameless  terrors  and  eternal  gloom  : 
God  help  him  in  his  sad  omniscient  doom  ! 


70  RELEASE. 


RELEASE. 

F  one  had  watched  a  prisoner  many  a  year, 
Standing  behind  a  barred  window-pane, 
Fettered  with  heavy  handcuff  and  with 

chain, 

And  gazing  on  the  blue  sky,  far  and  clear ; 
And  suddenly  some  morning  he  should  hear 
The  man  had  in  the  night  contrived  to  gain 
His  freedom  and  was  safe,  would  this  bring  pain? 
Ah  !  would  it  not  to  dullest  heart  appear 
Good  tidings  ? 

Yesterday  I  looked  on  one 
Who  lay  as  if  asleep  in  perfect  peace. 
His  long  imprisonment  for  life  was  done. 
Eternity's  great  freedom  his  release 
Had  brought.     Yet  they  who  loved  him  called  him 

dead, 
And  wept,  refusing  to  be  comforted. 


WHERE ?  7 I 


WHERE? 

Y  snowy  eupatorium  has  dropped       ^ 
Its  silver  threads  of  petals  in  the  night ; 
No  signal  told  its  blossoming  had  stopped  ; 
Its  seed-films  flutter  silent,  ghostly  white  : 
No  answer  stirs  the  shining  air, 
As  I  ask,  "Where?" 

Beneath  the  glossy  leaves  of  winter  green 
Dead  lily-bells  lie  low,  and  in  their  place 
A  rounded  disk  of  pearly  pink  is  seen, 
Which  tells  not  of  the  lily's  fragrant  grace  : 

No  answer  stirs  the  shining  air, 

As  I  ask,  "Where?" 

This  morning's  sunrise  does  not  show  to  me 
Seed-film  or  fruit  of  my  sweet  yesterday  ; 
Like  falling  flowers,  to  realms  I  cannot  see 
Its  moments  floated  silently  away  : 

No  answer  stirs  the  shining  air, 

As  I  ask,  "Where?" 


72  EMIGRAVIT. 


EMIGRAVIT. 

ITH  sails  full  set,  the  ship  her  anchor  weighs. 
Strange  names  shine  out  beneath  her  figure 

head. 

What  glad  farewells  with  eager  eyes  are  said  ! 
What  cheer  for  him  who  goes,  and  him  who  stays  ! 
Fair  skies,  rich  lands,  new  homes,  and  untried  days 
Some  go  to  seek ;  the  rest  but  wait  instead 
Until  the  next  stanch  ship  her  flag  doth  raise. 
Who  knows  what  myriad  colonies  there  are 
Of  fairest  fields,  and  rich,  undreamed-of  gains 
Thick  planted  in  the  distant  shining  plains 
Which  we  call  sky  because  they  lie  so  far? 
Oh,  write  of  me,  not  "  Died  in  bitter  pains," 
But  "  Emigrated  to  another  star  !  "     . 


MY  TENANTS.  73 


MY  TENANTS. 

NEVER  had  a  title-deed 
To  my  estate.     But  little  heed 
Eyes  give  to  me,  when  I  walk  by 
My  fields,  to  see  who  occupy. 
Some  clumsy  men  who  lease  and  hire 
And  cut  my  trees  to  feed  their  fire, 
Own  all  the  land  that  I  possess, 
And  tax  my  tenants  to  distress. 
And  if  I  said  I  had  been  first, 
And,  reaping,  left  for  them  the  worst, 
That  they  were  beggars  at  the  hands 
Of  dwellers  on  my  royal  lands, 
With  idle  laugh  of  passing  scorn 
As  unto  words  of  madness  born, 
They  would  reply. 

I  do  not  care  ; 

They  cannot  crowd  the  charmed  air ; 
They  cannot  touch  the  bonds  I  hold 
On  all  that  they  have  bought  and  sold. 
They  can  waylay  my  faithful  bees, 
Who,  lulled  to  sleep,  with  fatal  ease, 


74 


MY  TENANTS. 

Are  robbed.     Is  one  day's  honey  sweet 
Thus  snatched?     All  summer  round  my  feet 
In  golden  drifts  from  plumy  wings, 
In  shining  drops  on  fragrant  things, 
Free  gift,  it  came  to  me.     My  corn, 
With  burnished  banners,  morn  by  morn, 
Comes  out  to  meet  and  honor  me ; 
The  glittering  ranks  spread  royally 
Far  as  I  walk.     When  hasty  greed 
Tramples  it  down  for  food  and  seed, 
I,  with  a  certain  veiled  delight, 
Hear  half  the  crop  is  lost  by  blight. 

Letter  of  law  these  may  fulfil, 
Plant  where  they  like,  slay  what  they  will, 
Count  up  their  gains  and  make  them  great ; 
Nevertheless,  the  whole  estate 
Always  belongs  to  me  and  mine. 
We  are  the  only  royal  line. 
And  though  I  have  no  title-deed 
My  tenants  pay  me  loyal  heed 
When  our  sweet  fields  I  wander  by 
To  see  what  strangers  occupy. 


THE  STORY  OF  BOON.  75 


THE   STORY   OF   BOON.1 

haunts   my   thoughts  morn,  night,  and 

noon, 

The  story  of  the  woman,  Boon,  — 
Haunts  me  like  restless  ghost,  until 
I  give  myself  to  do  its  will ; 
Cries  voiceless,  yet  as  voices  cry,  — 
"  O  singer,  can  this  tale  pass  by 
Untold  by  thee  ?    Thy  heart  is  wrung 
In  vain,  if  dies  the  song  unsung." 
I  am  unworthy  :  master  hands 
Should  strike  the  chords,  and  fill  the  lands 
From  sea  to  sea  with  melody 
All  reverent,  yet  with  harmony 
Majestic,  jubilant,  to  tell 
How  love  must  love,  if  love  loves  well ; 
How  once  incarnate  love  was  found 
On  earth,  dishonored,  martyr- crowned, 
Crowned  by  a  heathen  woman's  name,  — 
O  blessed  Boon,  of  peerless  fame  ! 

1  This  story  of  Boon  is  strictly  true.  It  is  told  by  Mrs. 
Leonovvens,  the  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  court. 
She  took  it  down  from  Choy's  own  lips. 


76  THE  STORY  OF  BOON. 

In  Slam's  court  the  Buddhist  King 

Held  festival.     Fair  girls  to  sing, 

And  dance,  and  play,  were  led  between 

Close  ranks  of  Amazons  in  green 

And  gold.     In  chariot  milk-white 

Of  ivory,  and  glittering  bright 

With  flowers  garlanded,  rode  Choy, 

The  young,  the  beautiful ;  with  joy 

And  subtle  pride  no  words  could  tell, 

Her  virgin  bosom  rose  and  fell. 

No  dream  the  Siam  maiden  knew 

More  high  or  blest  than  that  which  grew 

In  Choy's  poor  blinded  heart,  —  to  be 

The  favorite  of  the  King,  and  see 

The  other  wives  beneath  her  feet. 

From  babyhood,  that  this  was  sweet 

The  child  was  taught.     How  should  she  know 

They  told  her  false,  and  worked  her  woe  ! 

The  song,  the  dance,  the  play,  were  done, 
Choy's  fatal  triumph  had  been  won. 
The  old  king's  bleared  and  lustful  eyes 
Had  marked  her  for  his  next  new  prize. 
Asking  her  name,  as  low  she  bowed 
Before  the  throne,  he  called  aloud,  — 
"  Which  of  my  nobles  springs  to  lead 
Her  chariot  ponies  ?     Do  I  need 
Speak  farther?" 

On  the  instant,  two 
Young  nobles  robed  in  white  sprang  through 


THE  STORY  OF  BOON.  77 

The  crowd,  and  kneeling  as  to  queen, 
With  lo\v-bent  head  and  reverent  mien, 
They  walked  the  chariot  beside. 
The  bands  burst  forth  in  swelling  tide 
Of  music,  and  the  curtain  fell. 
One  noble,  smitten  by  the  spell 
Of  Choy's  great  beauty,  whispered,  "  God, 
How  beautiful  thou  art !  " 

"My  Lord, 

Have  care,"  the  scornful  Choy  exclaimed : 
"  'T  were  ill  for  thee,  if  thou  wert  blamed 
By  me." 

The  other  noble  silent  gazed, 
With  eyes  whose  glance  strange  tumult  raised 
Within  Choy's  breast.     He  did  not  speak  : 
All  spoken  words  had  fallen  weak, 
After  his  look.     Yet  Choy's  heart  burned 
To  hear  his  voice.     Sudden  she  turned, 
And  leaning  forward  said,  "  How  now, 
What  seest  thou  in  air  that  thou 
Art  dumb?" 

With  trembling  lips  he  spoke,  — 
"  O  Lady,  till  thy  sweet  voice  broke 
Upon  the  air,  I  thought  I  saw 
An  angel ;  now,  with  no  less  awe, 
But  greater  joy,  I  see  thou  art 
A  woman." 

Ah,  they  know  not  heart 


78  THE  STORY  OF  BOON. 

Of  man  or  woman,  who  declare 
That  love  needs  time  to  love  and  dare. 
His  altars  wait,  —  not  day  nor  name, 
Only  the  touch  of  sacred  flame. 

The  song,  the  dance,  the  play  were  done. 

Oh,  fatal  triumph  Choy  had  won  ! 

Oh,  hateful  life  she  thought  was  sweet ! 

She  knelt  before  the  old  king's  feet, 

A  slave,  a  toy,  a  purchased  thing, 

Which  to  his  worn-out  sense  might  bring 

Pleasure  again  of  touch,  of  sight. 

Doting,  he  named  her  "  Chorm,"  "  Delight," 

Decked  her  with  jewels,  gave  her  power, 

And  day  and  night,  and  hour  by  hour, 

With  hideous  caresses  sought 

Joy  in  the  thing  which  he  had  bought. 

And  hour  by  hour,  and  night  and  day, 

Wasted  poor  Choy's  young  life  away. 

One  thrilling  voice,  one  glowing  face, 

One  thought  of  such  a  love's  embrace, 

Haunted  her  thoughts,  and  racked  her  breast, 

Robbed  her  of  peace,  robbed  her  of  rest, 

Made  of  her  life  such  living  lie, 

Such  torture,  she  but  prayed  to  die 

Months  passed,  and  she  knew  not  the  name 
Of  him  she  loved.     At  last  there  came 


THE  STORY  OF  BOON.  79 

The  fated  day.     A  woman  slave, 
New  in  the  palace,  quickly  gave, 
Answering  Choy's  artful  questioning,        ^ 
The  noble's  name. 

"  Ah,  go  and  bring 

Me  news  of  him,"  said  Choy.     "  He  bore 
Himself  so  loftily,  I  more 
Recall  him  than  all  else  that  day. 
Seek  out  minutely  in  what  way 
He  lives ;  what  may  his  harem  hold. 
He  seemed  to  me  so  silent,  cold, 
No  doubt  some  Houri  keeps  him  chained," 
With  scornful  laugh,  but  poorly  feigned, 
Cried  Choy. 

At  dusk  of  night  returned 
The  slave,  with  wondrous  tale,  which  burned 
Itself  on  Choy's  glad  heart. 

The  Duke, 

Phaya  Phi  Chitt  his  name,  forsook 
His  harem  on  the  day  he  led 
The  Favorite's  chariot  ponies.     Dead 
He  seemed  to  all  he  once  had  loved  : 
No  fear,  no  joy,  his  spirit  moved. 
His  friends  believed  that  he  was  mad, 
Or  else  some  mortal  illness  had. 
A  feverish  joy  filled  all  Choy's  thought, 
She  knew  by  what  this  change  was  wrought. 
Ixwe's  keenest  pain,  if  shared  like  this, 
No  longer  seemed  a  pain,  but  bliss. 


8O  THE  STORY  OF  BOON. 

Again  the  faithful  slave  she  sent, 

With  message  of  one  word,  which  meant 

But  "I  remember." 

"  I  love  much." 

The  Duke  sent  back.     Ah,  madness  such 
As  this  was  never  seen.     The  halls 
Of  tyrants'  palaces  have  walls 
Higher  than  Love's  and  Hope's  last  breath, 
Wider  than  Life,  deeper  than  Death  ! 


Embroidered  with  a  thread  of  gold 

On  silk,  and  hidden  fold  on  fold, 

As  if  an  amulet  she  wore, 

Her  lover's  name  the  poor  Choy  bore 

By  night,  by  day,  upon  her  heart. 

The  new  slave  woman,  with  an  art 

As  tender  as  a  sister's,  sought 

To  comfort  her.     Each  day  she  brought 

New  message  from  the  Duke,  each  night 

Lay  at  her  mistress'  feet  till  light. 

O  Buddha  !  pitiful,  divine, 

All-seeing,  gav'st  thou  no  sign 

To  warn  these  faithful,  loving  three, 

Who  were  as  faithful  unto  thee 

As  to  each  other  !     Didst  thou  teach 

The  cruel  tyrant  how  to  reach 

Their  life  blood,  that  thy  arm  might  save 

Them  by  the  surety  of  the  grave  ? 


THE  STORY  OF  BOON.  8 1 

Might  give  to  their  expiring  breath 

The  gift  of  life,  in  shape  of  death? 

Ah,  Buddha  !  pitiful,  divine, 

Thy  gifts  of  death  record  no  sign 

Of  life  beyond.     Our  weak  hearts  crave 

Some  voice  of  surety  for  the  grave. 

The  hours  grew  ripe  :  the  hour  was  set, 

The  night  had  come.     Choy  slumbered  yet, 

While  faithful  Boon,  with  footsteps  light, 

Made  all  things  ready  for  their  flight. 

Sudden  a  clash  of  arms,  —  a  gleam 

Of  fire  of  torches  !     From  her  dream 

Choy  waked,  and  on  her  threshold  saw, 

Dread  sight  which  chilled  her  blood  with  awe, 

Standing  with  panting  voice  and  breath, 

Mai  Tai'e,  Mother  of  Death, 

Crudest  of  all  the  Amazons, 

Slayer  of  all  convicted  ones 

Who  braved  the  tyrant's  wrath  and  hate. 

Choy  called  on  Boon.     Too  late  !  too  late  ! 

Boon  fettered  lay  with  gag  and  chain ; 

Most  piteous  eyes,  faithful  in  pain, 

Unto  her  mistress  lifting  still. 

With  blows  and  jeers  wreaking  their  will, 

The  soldier  women,  fierce  and  strong, 

Dragged  weeping  Choy  and  Boon  along 

The  by-ways  of  the  silent  town, 

And  flung  them,  chained  and  helpless,  down 


82  THE  STORY  OF  BOON. 

Into  a  dark  and  loathsome  cell. 
Soon  as  their  footsteps'  echoes  fell 
Faintly  afar,  Choy  whispered  low,  — 
"  O  Boon,  dear  Boon  !  tell  me  hast  thou 
Confessed?" 

"  Dear  Lady,  no  !  "  she  cried. 
"  No  tortures  tyrants  ever  tried 
Shall  wring  from  me  one  word  of  blame 
Against  Phaya  Phi  Chitt's  dear  name." 
That  instant,  flashing  through  Choy's  heart 
Strange  instinct  swept. 

"  Tell  me  who  art 

Thou,  Boon,"  she  said  :  "  why  dost  thou  cling 
To  me  through  all  this  suffering? 
All  other  women  I  have  known 
Had  left  me  now  to  die  alone. 
O  Boon,  conceal  from  me  no  more  ! 
Tell  me  the  truth  in  this  dread  hour  !  " 
Then,  looking  newly  at  her  face, 
She  saw  it  beauty  had,  and  grace  ; 
Saw  that  the  feet  were  lithe  and  fine, 
The  hands  were  small  and  smooth  :  each  sign 
Of  tender  nurture  and  high  blood 
This  loving  woman  bore,  who  stood 
To  her  as  slave.     Unearthly  sweet 
Grew  Boon's  pale  face,  as  to  the  feet 
Of  Choy,  all  crippled,  chained,  she  crept, 
And,  as  she  strove  to  speak,  but  wept 


THE  STORY  OF  BOON.  83 

And  sobbed, — 

"  O  Lady  dear,  forgive 
That  I  deceived  thee  !     I  but  live  > 

For  thy  dear  Duke.     I  am  his  wife  !  " 
Dumb  wonder  sealed  Choy's  lips.     A  strife 
Of  fierce  mistrust  warred  in  her  breast. 
At  last,  stern-faced,  "  Tell  me  the  rest," 
She  said. 

Closer,  more  humbly  still 
Boon  crept,  and  said,  — 

"  Lady,  I  will ; 

And,  by  the  heart  of  Buddha,  thou 
Canst  but  forgive  when  thou  dost  know 
The  whole. 

"  The  day  my  husband  came 
Home  from  the  fete,  he  spoke  thy  name 
And  told  thy  beauty  unto  me, 
And  said  that  from  that  moment  he, 
His  thought,  his  heart,  his  blood,  were  thine, — 
Thine  utterly,  and  no  more  mine 
Again.     What  could  I  do  but  weep? 
I  saw  him  pine.     No  food,  no  sleep, 
He  took.     I  thought  that  he  must  die. 
What  could  I  do?     O  Lady,  I 
So  loved  him  that  I  longed  as  he 
That  fate  might  give  him  joy  and  thee. 
I  vowed  to  him  that  I  would  win 
Thee  for  his  wife.     How  to  begin 


84  THE  STORY  OF  BOON. 

I  knew  not,  when  I  found  thou  vvert 
The  King's  last  favorite.     It  hurt 
My  pride  to  be  a  slave.     The  gold 
Lies  in  the  sea  for  which  I  sold 
Myself  to  thee,  rather  than  break 
My  vow.     But  easy  for  his  sake, 
I  loved  him  so,  thy  service  came, 
Soon  as  I  found  that  his  dear  name 
Was  dear  to  thee  as  thine  to  him  ; 
That,  when  I  spoke  it,  it  could  dim 
Thine  eyes  with  passion's  tears,  like  those 
Which  he  had  shed  in  passion's  throes, 
For  want  of  thee.     O  Lady,  none 
Of  all  thy  sighs  and  tears,  not  one, 
But  I  have  flown  and  faithful  told, 
That  he  might  know  thou  wert  not  cold. 
Each  word  of  beauty,  nobleness, 
Which  thou  didst  speak,  I  bore  to  bless 
His  heart  with  knowledge  more  complete 
Of  thee.     O  Lady,  the  deceit 
Was  only  for  his  precious  sake 
And  thine  :  no  other  way  to  take 
I  knew.     My  husband  is  so  great, 
So  good,  I  was  but  humble  mate 
For  him.     As  shadow  follows  shape, 
My  heart  in  life  cannot  escape 
From  following  his ;  nor  yet  in  death 
Shall  it  be  changed  :  with  dying  breath, 


THE  STORY  OF  BOON.  85 

From  Buddha  I  one  joy  will  wrest, 

That  he  find  rapture  in  thy  breast."     ,, 

Boon  ceased,  and  in  her  slender  hands, 

Which  scarce  could  lift  her  fetter  bands, 

Buried  her  face.     Choy  did  not  speak. 

Her  reverence  knew  not  where  to  seek 

For  fitting  words  which  she  might  dare 

To  use  to  Boon.     The  midnight  air 

Heard  only  sobs,  as  close  between 

Her  arms  she  drew  Boon's  head  to  lean 

Upon  her  breast.     The  long  night  waned, 

And  still  in  silence  sat  the  chained 

And  helpless  women.     Strange  thoughts  filled 

The  heart  of  Choy.     Her  love  seemed  chilled, 

Poor,  and  untrue,  beside  this  one 

Great  deed  she  never  could  have  done. 

"Ah,  me  !  his  wife  has  loved  him  best," 

In  bitterness  her  heart  confessed, 

Yet  jealousy  for  shame  was  dead. 

Her  tears  fell  loving  on  Boon's  head  : 

"  Dear  Boon,"  she  whispered  soft  and  low, 

"  To  Buddha  pitiful  we  go." 

Next  morning  when  the  judges  dread 

Cross-questioned  Boon,  she  simply  said, 

"  My  Lords,  what  can  a  poor  slave  know?" 

Weary  at  last,  the  fearful  blow 

Of  lashes  on  her  naked  feet 

They  ordered.     Blood  ran  down  the  sweet 


86  THE  STORY  OF  BOON. 

Soft  flesh  :  still  came  the  answer  low, 

11  My  Lords,  what  can  a  poor  slave  know? 

Be  pitiful !  "     The  swift  blows  fell 

Again  :  no  cry,  no  sound,  to  tell 

That  it  was  pain,  Boon  gave  ;  no  sign 

Of  faltering.     They  poured  down  wine 

To  stay  her  strength,  and  then  again,  — 

Oh,  surely  fiends  they  were,  not  men  !  — 

Again,  from  slender  neck  to  waist, 

The  cutting  blows  in  angry  haste 

With  tenfold  violence  they  laid. 

Each  blow  a  line  of  red  blood  made  ; 

Yet,  when  they  paused,  the  answer  came 

Steadfast,  heroic,  in  the  same 

Pathetic  words,  more  feeble,  slow, 

"  My  Lords,  what  can  a  poor  slave  know?" 

Then  in  the  torture  of  the  screw, 

Whose  pain  has  led  strong  men  to  do 

Dishonor  to  their  souls  and  God, 

They  bound  this  woman's  hands.     Sweat  stood 

In  bloody  drops  along  her  brow, 

Yet  from  her  lips  not  even  now 

Was  heard  one  syllable. 

In  rage, 

The  baffled  tyrants  to  assuage 
Her  sufferings  tried  every  art 
Which  could  be  tried  by  kindest  heart. 
And  snatched  her  back  from  death  again, 
Again  to  tortures  fresh  ;  in  vain  ! 


THE  STORY  OF  BOON.  87 

Night  came,  and  from  her  lips  no  word 
Had  fallen.     All  night  they  faintly  stirred, 
As  if  in  sleep  she  dreamed  and  spoke. 
Choy  watching,  weeping  by  her,  took 
Her  hand,  and  said,  — 

"  Oh,  tell  thy  Choy, 
Art  thou  in  mortal  pain  ?  " 

"  My  joy 

Is  greater  than  my  pain,"  she  said, 
"  That  this  poor  flesh  hath  not  betrayed 
My  love.     Thanking  great  Buddha  now, 
I  pray  unceasing,  till  we  go 
Again  to  torture."     Then  no  more 
Boon  spoke.     To  Choy,  but  little  lower 
Than  angel  she  appeared.     Ah  !  true 
It  was  the  wife  loved  best !     Love  knew 
His  own.     His  angels  comforted 
Her  soul  with  joy  through  hours  which  bred 
But  anguish  in  Choy's  breast. 

Too  soon 

Came  cruel  day,  and  brought  to  Boon 
Again  the  lash,  the  screw  ;  again 
Unto  the  door  of  death  in  vain 
They  tortured  her :  no  word  escaped 
Her  bloodless  lips.     Her  face  seemed  shaped 
Of  iron,  so  calm,  so  resolute  ; 
A  superhuman  light  her  mute 
And  upward  gaze  transfigured,  till 
In  awe  the  torturers  stood  still. 


88  THE  STORY  OF  BOON. 

Then,  binding  up  her  wounds,  they  laid 
Her  on  a  couch  to  rest.     New  shade 
Of  anguish  now  her  face  revealed, 
Waiting  Choy's  words.     All  unconcealed, 
No  doubt,  the  weaker  love  lay  bare 
Before  her  instinct.     It  could  dare 
For  self :  now  that  for  self  remained 
No  hope,  no  future  to  be  gained, 
Could  it  for  him  be  true,  be  great  ? 
Ah,  this  true  torture  was,  —  to  wait 
Another  woman's  courage  !     Eyes 
Of  fire  Boon  fixed  on  Choy.     To  rise 
She  helpless  strove,  in  impulse  vain, 
As  if  by  touch  she  could  sustain 
Choy's  strength.     Her  gaze  was  like  a  cry. 
"  Oh,  what  is  death,  is  suffering,  by 
The  side  of  truth  ?     If  thou  dost  love 
Another,  thought  of  self  can  move 
Thee  not.     If  thou  dost  love,  to  bear 
The  worst  is  nothing.     Dost  thou  dare 
Betray,  thou  art  a  coward,  liar  !" 
Entreated,  warned  Boon's  eyes  of  fire. 
They  held  Choy's  eyes  as  by  a  spell. 
Feeble  the  judges'  stern  tones  fell, 
Idle  the  threats  of  torture  seemed, 
Beside  the  scorching  look  which  gleamed 
Upon  that  woman's  face. 

Thus  stayed 
And  stung,  Choy  bore  the  blows  which  laid 


THE  STORY  OF  BOOK.  89 

Her  quivering  flesh  in  furrows.     Feet 
And  neck  and  shoulders,  all  the  sweet  » 
Fair  skin  was  torn  :  her  blood  ran  down 
As  Boon's  had  run,  —  not  of  her  own 
Resolve,  but  born  of  Boon's  the  strength 
Which  silent  sealed  her  lips.     At  length 
The  one  sure  pain  which  torturers  know 
They  tried.     No  rack,  no  fire,  no  blow, 
Is  dreadful  as  the  screw.     At  first 
Sharp  turn  it  gave,  a  loud  cry  burst 
From  Choy,  — 

"  O  Boon,  forgive,  forgive  1 
I  cannot  bear  this  pain,  and  live  ! " 
And,  shrieking  out  her  lover's  name, 
She  cowered  before  Boon's  eyes  of  flame. 
One  cry  of  uttermost  despair 
From  Boon  rang  out  upon  the  air, 
Her  fettered  arms  above  her  head 
She  lifted,  and  fell  back  as  dead. 
Ah  !  true  it  was,  the  wife  loved  best ! 
How  true,  that  cry  of  Choy's  confessed. 
To  love  which  she  had  so  betrayed, 
No  prayer  she  for  forgiveness  made  : 
On  him  whom  she  had  thought  her  life 
She  called  not,  but  upon  his  wife. 


Swift  sped  the  feet  of  them  who  sought 
The  lover.     Ere  the  noon,  they  brought 


9o  THE  STORY  OF  BOON. 

Him  also.     Boon,  with  anguished  eyes, 
Beheld  him  there.     She  could  not  rise, 
But,  creeping  on  her  hands  and  feet, 
She  cried,  in  tones  unearthly  sweet,  — 
"  O  Lords  !  O  Judges  !  look  at  me, 
And  listen.     It  was  I,  not  he. 
I  am  his  wife.     I  laid  the  plot. 
Except  for  me,  the  thought  had  not 
Been  his.     'T  was  only  I  deceived 
The  Lady  Choy.     He  but  believed 
What  I  desired.     The  guilt  is  mine, 
All  mine.     Tell  them  it  was  not  thine, 
My  husband,  —  I  can  bear  the  whole." 
And,  as  she  turned  to  him,  the  soul 
Of  love  ineffable  set  smile 
Upon  her  face.     Her  piteous  guile, 
Transparent,  thrilled  each  heart  and  ear 
That  heard  her  pleading  voice.     A  tear 
Fell  from  the  sternest  Amazon, 
Fierce  Khoon  Thow  App,  as  in  a  tone 
No  mortal  from  her  lips  had  heard 
Before,  she  said,  "  O  Boon,  what  stirred 
Thy  heart  to  this?     Thy  motive  tell !  " 
The  question  all  unanswered  fell. 
Boon  lay  again  as  if  in  death, 
With  closed  eyes  and  gasping  breath. 

All  night,  low  on  the  dark  cell's  floor, 
Lay  Boon  and  Choy ;  for  Boon  no  more 


THE  STORY  OF  BOON.  91 

Remained  in  life.     When  Choy  crept  near, 
And  humbly  spoke,  she  answered,  "  Dear, 
Farewell  !  "  —  no  other  word.     Choy  strove,  — 
Poor  Choy  !  her  feebler,  lesser  love 
Avenging  on  herself  its  sin,  — 
Strove  from  the  greater  love  to  win 
Some  healing  stay.     Too  sweet  to  pain, 
Too  loyal  and  too  true  to  feign, 
Boon  made  but  one  reply,  which  fell 
Fainter  and  fainter,  "  Dear,  farewell !  " 


That  night,  at  midnight,  sat  the  King 
And  Lords  in  council.     For  the  thing 
Phaya  Phi  Chitt  and  Choy  had  planned, 
Scarcely  in  all  that  cruel  land 
Was  known  a  punishment  which  seemed 
Sufficient.     Fierce  his  red  wrath  gleamed, 
As  cried  the  King,  — 

"  At  dawn  shall  fly 
The  vultures  with  their  hungry  cry. 
Rare  feast  for  them  ready  by  noon 
Shall  be  :  three  traitors'  bodies  hewn 
In  pieces,  and  with  offal  cast 
Abroad,  that  to  the  very  last 
Low  grade  of  life  they  may  return, 
And  grovel  with  the  beasts  to  learn, 
Through  countless  ages,  in  what  way 
Kings  punish  when  their  slaves  betray. 


Q2  THE  STORY  OF  BOON. 

Long  generations  shall  forget 
Their  base-born  names,  ere  souls  are  set 
Again  within  their  foul,  false  flesh, 
To  murder  love  and  trust  afresh  !  " 1 

Ah  !  true  it  was,  the  wife  loved  best ! 

Love  knew  his  own,  gave  her  his  rest ; 

And,  to  the  other  woman,  doom 

Of  life-long  woe  and  life-long  gloom. 

O  cruel  friends  who  prayed  the  King, 

Who  dreamed  Choy  to  this  world  could  cling  ! 

Reprieved  from  death,  to  life  condemned, 

Sad  prisoner  forever  hemmed 

Within  the  hated  palace-wall ; 

By  all  despised,  and  shunned  by  all, 

Lonely  and  broken-hearted,  she 

Weeps  day  and  night  in  misery. 

And  day  and  night  one  picture  haunts 

Her  weary  brain,  her  sorrow  taunts,  — 

Picture  of  Buddha's  fairest  fields, 

Where  every  hour  new  transport  yields, 

And  where  the  lover  whom  she  slew, 

Loyal  at  last,  and  glad  and  true, 

In  full  Elysium's  perfect  rest, 

Walks  with  the  one  who  loved  him  best ! 

1  The  Siamese  believe  that,  whenever  a  dead  body  is  not 
burned,  its  soul  is  condemned  to  begin  life  again  in  the 
lowest  animal  form. 


THE  STORY  OF  BOON,  93 

It  haunts  me  morn,  and  night,  and  noon : 

This  story  of  the  woman,  Boon,  — 

Haunts  me  like  restless  ghost,  that  says,  — • 

"  Oh,  where  is  love  in  these  sad  days  ! 

Rise  up,  and  in  my  might  and  name 

Plead  for  the  altar  and  the  flame." 

\  am  unworthy  :  master  hands 

Should  strike  the  chords,  and  fill  the  lands 

From  sea  to  sea  with  melody 

Of  such  transcendent  harmony 

That  it  all  jubilant  might  tell 

How  love  must  love,  if  love  lovesWelr.N 

Yet,  telling  all,  and  flooding  lands 

With  melody,  the  master  hands 

Could  strike  no  deeper  chord  than  I, 

When  from  a  woman's  heart  I  cry,  — 

"  O  martyred  Boon,  of  peerless  fame, 

Incarnate  in  thy  life,  Love  came  !  " 


94  THE    VICTORY  OF  PATIENCE. 


THE   VICTORY   OF   PATIENCE. 

RMED  of  the  gods  !    Divinest  conqueror  ! 
What  soundless  hosts  are  thine  !      Nor 

pomp,  nor  state, 
Nor  token,  to  betray  where  thou  dost  wait. 
All  Nature  stands,  for  thee,  ambassador  \ 
Her  forces  all  thy  serfs,  for  peace  or  war. 
Greatest  and  least  alike,  thou  rul'st  their  fate,  — 
The  avalanche  chained  until  its  century's  date, 
The  mulberry  leaf  made  robe  for  emperor  ! 
Shall  man  alone  thy  law  deny  ?  —  refuse 
Thy  healing  for  his  blunders  and  his  sins? 
Oh,  make  us  thine  !    Teach  us  who  waits  best  sues ; 
Who  longest  waits  of  all  most  surely  wins. 
When  Time  is  spent,  Eternity  begins. 
To  doubt,  to  chafe,  to  haste,  doth  God  accuse. 


GOD'S  LIGHT-HOUSES.  95 


GOD'S   LIGHT-HOUSES. 

HEN  night  falls  on  the  earth,  the  sea 

From  east  to  west  lies  twinkling  bright 
With  shining  beams  from  beacons  high 
Which  flash  afar  a  friendly  light. 


The  sailor's  eyes,  like  eyes  in  prayer, 
Turn  unto  them  for  guiding  ray  : 

If  storms  obscure  their  radiance, 

The  great  ships  helpless  grope  their  way. 

When  night  falls  on  the  earth,  the  sky 
Looks  like  a  wide,  a  boundless  main. 

Who  knows  what  voyagers  sail  there  ? 

Who  names  the  ports  they  seek  and  gain  ? 

Are  not  the  stars  like  beacons  set 

To  guide  the  argosies  that  go 
From  universe  to  universe, 

Our  little  world  above,  below  ?  — 


96  GOD'S  LIGHT-HOUSES. 

On  their  great  errands  solemn  bent, 
In  their  vast  journeys  unaware 

Of  our  small  planet's  name  or  place 
Revolving  in  the  lower  air. 

O  thought  too  vast !  O  thought  too  glad  ! 

An  awe  most  rapturous  it  stirs. 
From  world  to  world  God's  beacons  shine 

God  means  to  save  his  mariners  ! 


SONGS  OF  BATTLE.  97 


SONGS   OF   BATTLE. 

LD  as  .the  world  —  no  other  things  so  old  ; 

Nay,  older  than  the  world,  else,  how  had 
sprung 

Such  lusty  strength  in  them  when  earth 

was  young?  — 

Stand  valor  and  its  passion  hot  and  bold, 
Insatiate  of  battle.     How,  else,  told 
Blind  men,  born  blind,  that  red  was  fitting  tongue 
Mute,  eloquent,  to  show  how  trumpets  rung 
When  armies  charged  and  battle- flags  unrolled  ? 
Who  sings  of  valor  speaks  for  life,  for  death, 
Beyond  all  death,  and  long  as  life  is  life, 
In  rippled  waves  the  eternal  air  his  breath 
Eternal  bears  to  stir  all  noble  strife. 
Dead  Homer  from  his  lost  and  vanished  grave 
Keeps  battle  glorious  still  and  soldiers  brave. 


98  NO  MAN'S  LAND. 


NO   MAN'S   LAND. 

HO  called  it  so  ?    What  accident 

The  wary  phase  devised  ? 
What  wandering  fancy  thither  went, 
And  lingered  there  surprised? 

Ah,  no  man's  land  !     O  sweet  estate 

inimitably  fair  ! 
No  measure,  wall,  or  bar  or  gate. 

Secure  as  sky  or  air. 

No  greed,  no  gain  ;  not  sold  or  bought, 
Un marred  by  name  or  brand, 

Not  dreamed  of  or  desired  or  sought, 
Nor  visioned,  "no  man's  land." 

Suns  set  and  rise,  and  rise  and  set, 
Whole  summers  come  and  go  ; 

And  winters  pay  the  summer's  debt, 
And  years  of  west  wind  blow ; 


NO  MAN'S  LAND. 

And  harvests  of  wild  seed-times  fill, 

And  seed  and  fill  again  ; 
And  blossoms  bloom  at  blossoms'  will, 

By  blossoms  overlain ; 

And  day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 

Uncounted  suns  and  moons, 
By  silent  shadows  mark  and  stay 

Unreckoned  nights  and  noons  : 

Ah,  "  no  man's  land,"  hast  thou  a  lover, 
Thy  wild,  sweet  charm  who  sees? 

The  stars  look  down ;  the  birds  fly  over ; 
Art  thou  alone  with  these  ? 

Ah,  "no  man's  land,"  when  died  thy  lover, 

Who  left  no  trace  to  tell? 
Thy  secret  we  shall  not  discover ; 

The  centuries  keep  it  well ! 


99 


100  JUST  OUT  OF  SIGHT. 


JUST  OUT  OF   SIGHT. 


N  idle  reverie,  one  winter's  day, 

I  watched  the  narrow  vista  of  a  street, 
Where  crowds  of  men  with  noisy,  hurry 
ing  feet 

And  eager  eyes  went  on  their  restless  way. 
Idly  I  noted  where  the  boundary  lay, 
At  which  the  distance  did  my  vision  cheat, 
Past  which  each  figure  fading  fast  did  fleet, 
And  seem  to  meet  and  vanish  in  the  gray. 
Sudden  there  came  to  me  a  thought,  oft  told, 
But  newly  shining  then  like  flash  of  light,  — 
"  This  death,  the  dread  of  which  turns  us  so  cold, 
Outside  of  our  own  fears  has  no  stronghold  ; 
'T  is  but  a  boundary,  past  which,  in  white, 
Our  friends  are  walking  still,  just  out  of  sight  !  " 

II. 

"  JUST  out  of  sight !  "     Ay,  truly,  that  is  all ! 
Take  comfort  in  the  words,  and  be  deceived 
All  ye  who  can,  or  have  not  been  bereaved  ! 
"  Just  out  of  sight."     'T  is  easy  to  recall 


JUST  OUT  OF  SIGHT.  IOI 

A  face,  a  voice.     O  foolish  words,  and  small 

And  bitter  cheer  !     Men  have  all  this  believed, 

And  yet,  in  agony,  to  death  have  grieved, 

For  one  "  just  out  of  sight,"  beneath  a  pall ! 

"  Just  out  of  sight."     It  means  the  whole  of  woe  : 

One  sudden  stricken  blind  who  loved  the  light ; 

One  starved  where  he  had  feasted  day  and  night ; 

One  who  was  crowned,  to  beggary  brought  low ; 

All  this  death  doeth,  going  to  and  fro 

And  putting  those  we  love  "just  out  of  sight." 


IO2  SEPTEMBER    WOODS. 


SEPTEMBER  WOODS. 

IRT  round   by  meadows  wearing  shabby 

weeds 

For  clover's  early  death,  and  sentried  by 
The  tireless  locust,  with  his  muffled  click 
Of  secret  weapon,  at  each  footfall,  stand 
The  woods. 

September,  smiling  treacherous  smiles, 
And  bearing  in  his  hand  a  hollow  truce 
Which  gentle  Summer  trusts,  can  enter  free. 
O  fatal  trust !     Her  sacred  inner  court 
Of  Holies,  holiest,  the  lovely  queen 
Throws  open  to  the  ally  of  her  foe. 
By  day,  with  sunny  look  and  gracious  air 
He  wins  her  heart  and  wears  her  colors.     Night 
Beholds  him,  in  his  white  and  gleaming  mail, 
Alert  and  noiseless,  following  the  dews, 
Her  faithful  messengers,  waylaying  them 
With  sudden  cruel  death,  and,  in  their  stead, 
His  own  foul  treason  bearing  through  the  realm. 
Lured  by  his  guile,  the  green  and  twining  vines 
Array  themselves  in  party-colored  robes 
And  loosely  flaunt,  unknowing  't  is  their  death. 


SEPTEMBER    WOODS.  IO3 

The  low  Bunch-Berry  her  nun's  white  lays  by,' 
And  wearing  claret  satin,  decks  her  breast 
With  knots  of  scarlet  beads.     This  sin,  O  sweet, 
In  resurrection  of  the  coming  Spring, 
Shall  be  forgiven  thee,  and  thou  again 
Shalt  rise,  as  white  as  snow. 

The  fragrant  ferns, 

And  clinging  mosses,  to  whom  Summer  kind 
Had  been,  more  than  to  other  lowly  things, 
Are  true ;  and  not  till  they  are  trampled  low 
By  icy  warriors,  will  they  refuse 
Their  emerald  carpet  to  her  tread,  and  then, 
In  cold  white  grief,  will  die  around  her  feet : 
The  simpering  Birch,  unstable  in  the  wind, 
Is  first  to  break  his  faith,  and  cheaply  bought 
By  gold,  in  brazen  vanity,  lifts  up 
His  arms,  and  broadly  waves  the  glittering  price 
Of  his  dishonor  :   Poplars  next  and  Elms 
Grow  envious  of  the  yellow  show,  and  hold 
Their  hands  for  traitor's  wages  ;  but  more  scant 
And  dim  the  golden  tokens  gained  by  them ; 
For  now  disloyalty  has  spread,  and  grown 
More  bold  of  front :  whole  clans  are  cheaply  won. 
In  hostile  signal  fires  from  hill  to  hill, 
The  Maples  blaze  ;  the  tangling  Sumach-trees 
Of  glowing  spikes  build  crimson  ladders  up 
The  wall ;  ungainly  Moosewood  strives  and  creeps 
And  shakes  his  purple-spotted  banner  out 
Defiantly  ;  the  sturdy  Beeches  throw 


IO4  SEPTEMBER    WOODS. 

Their  harvest  down,  and  bristle  in  a  suit 
Of  leathern  points  :  all  is  revolt,  and  all 
Is  lost  for  Summer  ! 

Vainly  now  she  showers 

By  brook  and  pool  her  white  and  purple  stars, 
And  lifts  in  all  the  fields  her  Golden- Rod ; 
In  vain  thin  scarlet  streamers  sets  along 
The  meadows,  and  to  Gentian's  pallid  lips 
Of  blue  calls  back  the  chilled  and  torpid  bee  ; 
Sweet  queen,  her  kingdom  rocks  !     Her  only  stay 
And  comfort  now,  the  loving  Pines  who  wait 
In  solemn  grief,  unmoved  and  undismayed 
By  guile  or  threats,  and  to  their  farthest  kin, 
A  haughty  and  untarnished  race,  will  keep 
Eternally  inviolate  and  green 
Their  sworn  allegiance  to  her  and  all 
Her  name  !     Encircled  by  their  arms  she  dies ; 
And  not  the  deadliest  thrusts  of  wintry  spears, 
Nor  sweeping  avalanche  of  snow  and  ice, 
Can  daunt  them  from  their  silent  watch  around 
Her  sepulchre,  nor  from  their  faithful  hold 
Can  wrest  the  babe,  who,  hid  in  sacred  depths 
And  fed  on  sacred  food,  and  nurtured  till 
The  fated  day,  shall  lift  her  infant  hand, 
And  slaying  the  usurper,  take  the  throne 
Next  in  the  royal  line  of  summer  queens. 


TO-DAY.  105 


TO-DAY. 

SADDEST  prisoner,  to  death  condemned, 
Going  blindfold,  with  slow,  reluctant  feet, 
Hands  fettered  and  mute  lips,  thy  doom 

to  meet, 

By  flaming  swords  before,  behind  thee,  hemmed, 
Led  by  two  Fates,  —  To-morrow,  with  her  gemmed 
Arms  that  flash  mocking  tokens  of  the  sweet 
Things  thou  hadst  hoped ;  and  Yesterday  with  cheat 
Of  withered  roses  which  thou  hast  contemned, 
Decking  her  icy  brow  and  heavy  pall ; 
While  we,  mute,  helpless,  with  prophetic  black 
Have  wrapped  ourselves,  and  in  thy  narrow  track 
Come,  hand  in  hand,  blindfolded,  fettered  all, 
Waiting  the  hour  when,  in  thy  death's  last  thrall 
Bidding  us  follow  thee,  thou  shalt  look  back. 


106  OPPORTUNITY. 


OPPORTUNITY. 

DO  not  know  if,  climbing  some  steep  hill, 
Through  fragrant  wooded  pass,  this  glimpse 

I  bought, 

Or  whether  in  some  mid-day  I  was  caught 
To  upper  air,  where  visions  of  God's  will 
In  pictures  to  our  quickened  sense  fulfil 
His  word.     But  this  I  saw. 

A  path  I  sought 

Through  wall  of  rock.     No  human  fingers  wrought 
The  golden  gates  which  opened  sudden,  still, 
And  wide.     My  fear  was  hushed  by  my  delight. 
Surpassing  fair  the  lands  ;  my  path  lay  plain  ; 
Alas,  so  spell-bound,  feasting  on  the  sight, 
I  paused,  that  I  but  reached  the  threshold  bright, 
When,  swinging  swift,  the  golden  gates  again 
Were  rocky  wall,  by  which  I  wept  in  vain. 


FLOWERS  ON  A    GRAVE. 


FLOWERS  ON  A   GRAVE. 


HAT  sweeter  thing  to  hear,  through  tears, 

than  this, 
Of  one  who  dies,  that,  looking  on  him 

dead, 

All  men  with  tender  reverence  gazed  and  said  : 
"  What  courtesy  and  gentleness  were  his  ! 
Our  ruder  lives,  for  years  to  come,  will  miss 
His  sweet  serenity,  which  daily  shed 
A  grace  we  scarcely  felt,  so  deep  inbred 
Of  nature  was  it.     Loyalty  which  is 
So  loyal  as  his  loyalty  to  friends 
Is  rare  ;  such  purity  is  rarer  still." 
Yes,  there  is  yet  one  sweeter  thing.    It  ends 
The  broken  speech  with  sobs  that  choke  and  fill 
Our  throats. 

Alas  !  lost  friend,  we  knew  not  how 
Our  hearts  were  won  to  love  thee,  until  now. 

n. 

SOME  lives  are  bright  like  torches,  and  their  flame 
Casts  flickering  lights  around,  and  changeful  heats ; 
Some  lives  blaze  like  the  meteor  which  fleets 
Across  the  sky ;  and  some  of  lofty  aim 


IO8  FLOWERS  ON  A    GRAVE. 

Stand  out  like  beacon-lights.     But  never  came, 
Or  can,  a  light  so  satisfying  sweet, 
As  steady  daylight,  unperturbed,  complete, 
And  noiseless. 

Human  lives  we  see  the  same 
As  this  ;  their  equilibrium  so  just, 
Their  movement  so  serene,  so  still,  small  heed 
The  world  pays  to  their  presence  till  in  need 
It  sudden  finds  itself.     The  darkness  near, 
The  precious  life  returning  dust  for  dust, 
It  recollects  how  noon  and  life  were  clear. 

in. 

How  poor  is  all  that  fame  can  be  or  bring  ! 
Although  a  generation  feed  the  pyre, 
How  soon  dies  out  the  lifeless,  loveless  fire  ! 
The  king  is  dead.     Hurrah  !     Long  live  the  king  ! 
The  poet  breathes  his  last.     Who  next  will  sing? 
The  great  man  falls.      Who  comes  to  mount  still 

higher  ? 

Oh,  bitter  emptiness  of  such  desire  ! 
Earth  holds  but  one  true  good,  but  one  true  thing, 
And  this  is  it  — to  walk  in  honest  ways 
And  patient,  and  with  all  one's  heart  belong 
In  love  unto  one's  own  !     No  death  so  strong 
That  life  like  this  he  ever  conquers,  slays ; 
The  centuries  do  to  it  no  hurt,  no  wrong  : 
They  are  eternal  resurrection  days. 


A   MEASURE   OF  HOURS.  IOQ 


A   MEASURE   OF   HOURS. 

NTO  those  two  I  called  who  hold 
In  hands  omnipotent  all  lives 
Of  men,  and  deal,  like  gods,  such  doled 

Alms  as  they  list,  to  him  who  strives 

And  him  who  waits  alike  : 

"Oh!  show 

Me  but  how  measure  ye  one  hour 
Of  time,  that  I  at  least  may  know 
If  I  lift  up  this  cross  what  power 
I  need ;  and  what  I  win  of  bliss 
If  I  may  dare  to  pay  the  cost  — 
Whole  cost,  without  which  I  must  miss 
This  joy,  and  feel  my  life  lost." 
Then  Joy  spoke  first,  all  breathless  : 

"  Drink  ! 

An  hour  seems  like  eternity. 
My  moments  hold  whole  ages.     Think 
No  price  too  great  which  buys  for  thce 
This  boundless  bliss.     Such  hours  as  mine 


HO  A   MEASURE   OF  HOURS. 

Mock  reckonings.     The  sands  stand  still. 
Drink  quickly  !     I  will  give  the  sign 
When  it  is  over.     Drink  thy  fill !  " 

I  had  scarce  tasted  when,  with  face 

All  changed  and  voice  grown  sharp,  Joy  cried : 

"  Thine  hour  is  past.     Give  place  !     Give  place  ! 

New  hearts  impatiently  abide 

Thy  going.     Every  man  fills  up 

His  own  swift  measure.     Thou  hadst  thine. 

Who  weakly  drains  the  empty  cup 

Drinks  only  bitter  dregs  of  wine." 

Then  Sorrow  whispered  gently  :  "  Take 
This  burden  up.     Be  not  afraid. 
An  hour  is  short.     Thou  scarce  wilt  wake 
To  consciousness  that  I  have  laid 
My  hand  upon  thee,  when  the  hour 
Shall  all  have  passed,  and,  gladder  then 
For  the  brief  pain's  uplifting  power, 
Thou  shalt  but  pity  griefless  men." 

I  grew  by  minutes  changed  and  old, 
As  men  change  not  in  many  years 
Of  happiness.     Lifetimes  untold 
Seemed  dragging  lifeless  by.     My  tears 
Ran  slow  for  utter  weariness 
Of  weeping ;  and,  when  token  came 


A   MEASURE   OF  HOURS.  I  1 1 

The  hour  was  done,  I  felt  far  less 

Of  joy  than  woe  ;  as  one  whose  name 

Is  called,  when  prison  doors  have  swung 

Open  too  late,  reluctantly 

Goes  forth  to  find  himself  among 

Strange  faces,  desolate,  though  free. 

"  O  cruel  brethren.  Joy  and  Grief," 
I  cried,  "  with  equal  mockery 
Your  promises  meet  our  belief. 
One  blossom  and  one  fruit  will  be 
Your  harvest !     But  full  well  I  know 
They  are  not  harvest ;  only  seed 
Sown  in  our  tears,  from  which  shall  grow 
In  other  soil  harvest  indeed,  — 

"  Harvest  in  God's  great  gardens  white, 
Where  cool  and  living  waters  run, 
And  where  the  spotless  Lamb  is  light, 
Instead  of  pallid  moon  and  sun  ; 
Where  constant  through  the  golden  air 
The  tree  of  life  sheds  mystic  leaf, 
Which  angels  to  the  nations  bear, 
Healing  alike  their  joy  and  grief." 


112  CHARLOTTE   CUSHMAN, 


CHARLOTTE   CUSHMAN. 


UT  yesterday  it  was.     Long  years  ago 
It  seems.     The  world  so  altered  looks 

to-day 

That,  journeying  idly  with  my  thoughts  astray, 
I  gazed  where  rose  one  lofty  peak  of  snow 
Above  grand  tiers  on  tiers  of  peaks  below. 
One  moment  brief  it  shone,  then  sank  away, 
As  swift  we  reached  a  point  where  foot-hills  lay 
So  near  they  seemed  like  mountains  huge  to  grow, 
And  touch  the  sky.     That  instant,  idly  still, 
My  eye  fell  on  a  printed  line,  and  read 
Incredulous,  with  sudden  anguished  thrill, 
The  name  of  this  great  queen  among  the  dead. 
I  raised  my  eyes.     The  dusty  foot-hills  near 
Had  gone.     Again  the  snowy  peak  shone  clear. 

II. 

OH  !  thou  beloved  woman,  soul  and  heart 
And  life,  thou  standest  unapproached  and  grand, 
As  still  that  glorious  snowy  peak  doth  stand. 
The  dusty  barrier  our  clumsy  art 


CHARLOTTE   CUSHMAN.  113 

In  terror  hath  called  death  holds  thee  apart 
From  us.     'T  is  but  the  low  foot-hill  of  sand 
Which  bars  our  vision  in  a  mountain-land. 
One  moment  further  on,  and  we  shall  start 
VVith  speechless  joy  to  find  that  we  have  passed 
The  dusky  mound  which  shuts  us  from  the  light 
Of  thy  great  love,  still  quick  and  warm  and  fast, 
Of  thy  great  strengths,  heroically  cast, 
Of  thy  great  soul,  still  glowing  pure  and  white, 
Of  thy  great  life,  still  pauseless,  full,  and  bright ! 


114  DEDICATION. 


DEDICATION. 

SAW  men  kneeling  where  their  hands 

had  brought 

And  fashioned  curiously  a  pile  of  stone. 
To  God  they  said  they  gave  it,  for  his  own, 
And  that  their  psalms  and  prayers  had  wrought 
Its  consecration.     When,  perplexed,  I  sought 
Their  meaning,  they  but  answered  with  a  groan, 
And  called  my  question  blasphemy.     Alone, 
In  silence  of  the  wilderness,  I  thought 
Again.     Swift  answer  came  from  rock,  tree,  sod  : 
"  These  puny  prayers  superfluous  rise,  and  late 
These  psalms.     When  first  the  world  swung  out  in 

space, 

Amid  the  shoutings  of  the  sons  of  God, 
Then  was  its  every  atom  dedicate, 
Forever  holy  by  God's  gift  and  grace." 


DAWN.  — EVE. 


DAWN. 

ITH  a  ring  of  silver, 

And  a  ring  of  gold, 
And  a  red,  red  rose 

Which  illumines  her  face, 
The  sun,  like  a  lover 

Who  glows  and  is  bold, 
Wooes  the  lovely  earth 
To  his  strong  embrace. 


EVE. 

N  millions  of  pieces 

The  beautiful  rings 

And  the  scattered  petals 

Of  the  rose  so  red, 


The  sun,  like  a  lover 
Who  is  weary,  flings 

On  the  lonely  earth 
When  the  day  is  dead. 


Il6  DREAMS. 


DREAMS. 

YSTERIOUS   shapes,   with  wands  of  joy 

and  pain, 

Which  seize  us  unaware  in  helpless  sleep, 
And  lead  us  to  the  houses  where  we  keep 
Our  secrets  hid,  well  barred  by  every  chain 
That  we  can  forge  and  bind  :  the  crime  whose  stain 
Is  slowly  fading  'neath  the  tears  we  weep ; 
Dead  bliss  which,  dead,  can  make  our  pulses  leap  — 
Oh,  cruelty  !     To  make  these  live  again  ! 
They  say  that  death  is  sleep,  and  heaven's  rest 
Ends  earth's  short  day,  as,  on  the  last  faint  gleam 
Of  sun,  our  nights  shut  down,  and  we  are  blest. 
Let  this,  then,  be  of  heaven's  joy  the  test, 
The  proof  if  heaven  be,  or  only  seem, 
That  we  forever  choose  what  we  will  dream  ! 


THE  DAY-STAR  IN  THE  EAST.         1 1/ 


THE   DAY-STAR   IN   THE   EAST. 


ACH  morning,  in  the  eastern  sky,  I  see 
The  star  that  morning  dares  to  call  its 

own. 
Night's  myriads  it  has  outwatched  and 

outshone ; 

Full  radiant  dawn  pales  not  its  majesty ; 
Peer  of  the  sun,  his  herald  fit  and  free. 
Sudden  from  earth,  dark,  heavy  mists  are  blown  ; 
The  city's  grimy  smoke,  to  pillars  grown, 
Climbs  up  the  sky,  and  hides  the  star  from  me. 
Strange,  that  a  film  of  smoke  can  blot  a  star  ! 
On  comes,  with  blinding  glare,  the  breathless  day  : 
The  star  is  gone.     The  moon  doth  surer  lay 
Than  midnight  gloom,  athwart  its  light,  a  bar. 
But  steadfast  as  God's  angels  planets  are. 
To-morrow's  dawn  will  show  its  changeless  ray. 

n. 

THE  centuries  are  God's  days ;  within  his  hand, 
Held  in  the  hollow,  as  a  balance  swings, 
Less  than  its  dust,  are  all  our  temporal  things. 
Long  are  his  nights,  when  darkness  steeps  the  land  ; 


Il8         THE  DAY-STAR  IN  THE  EAST. 

Thousands  of  years  fill  one  slow  dawn's  demand  ; 
The  human  calendar  its  measure  brings, 
Feeble  and  vain,  to  lift  the  soul  that  clings 
To  hope  for  light,  and  seeks  to  understand. 
The  centuries  are  God's  days ;  the  greatest  least 
In  his  esteem.     We  have  no  glass  to  sweep 
His  universe.     A  hand's-breadth  distant  dies, 
To  our  poor  ears,  the  strain  whose  echoes  keep 
All  heaven  glad.     We  do  but  grope  and  creep. 
There  always  is  a  day-star  in  the  skies  ! 


OCTOBER  'S  BRIGHT  BL  UE  WE  A  THER,     1 1 9 


OCTOBER'S   BRIGHT   BLUE   WEATHER. 


SUNS  and  skies  and  clouds  of  June, 

And  flowers  of  June  together, 
Ye  cannot  rival  for  one  hour 
October's  bright  blue  weather, 


When  loud  the  bumble-bee  makes  haste, 

Belated,  thriftless  vagrant, 
And  golden-rod  is  dying  fast, 

And  lanes  with  grapes  are  fragrant ; 

When  gentians  roll  their  fringes  tight 
To  save  them  for  the  morning, 

And  chestnuts  fall  from  satin  burrs 
Without  a  sound  of  warning ; 

When  on  the  ground  red  apples  lie 

In  piles  like  jewels  shining, 
And  redder  still  on  old  stone  walls 

Are  leaves  of  woodbine  twining  ; 


1 20      OCTOBER 'S  BRIGHT  BL  UE  WE  A  THER. 

When  all  the  lovely  wayside  things 
Their  white-winged  seeds  are  sowing, 

And  in  the  fields,  still  green  and  fair, 
Late  aftermaths  are  growing ; 

When  springs  run  low,  and  on  the  brooks, 

In  idle  golden  freighting, 
Bright  leaves  sink  noiseless  in  the  hush 

Of  woods,  for  winter  waiting ; 

When  comrades  seek  sweet  country  haunts, 

By  twos  and  twos  together, 
And  count  like  misers  hour  by  hour, 

October's  bright  blue  weather. 

O  suns  and  skies  and  flowers  of  June, 

Count  all  your  boasts  together, 
Love  loveth  best  of  all  the  year 

October's  bright  blue  weather. 


THE  RIVIERA.  121 


THE   RIVIERA. 

]  PEERLESS  shore  of  peerless  sea, 
Ere  mortal  eye  had  gazed  on  thee, 
What  god  was  lover  first  of  thine, 
Drank  deep  of  thy  unvintaged  wine, 
And  lying  on  thy  shining  breast 
Knew  all  thy  passion  and  thy  rest ; 
And  when  thy  love  he  must  resign, 
O  generous  god,  first  love  of  thine, 
Left  such  a  dower  of  wealth  to  thee, 
Thou  peerless  shore  of  peerless  sea  ! 
Thy  balmy  air,  thy  stintless  sun, 
Thy  orange-flowering  never  done, 
Thy  myrtle,  olive,  palm,  and  pine, 
Thy  golden  figs,  thy  ruddy  wine, 
Thy  subtle  and  resistless  spell 
Which  all  men  feel  and  none  can  tell  ? 
O  peerless  shore  of  peerless  sea  ! 
From  all  the  world  we  turn  to  thee ; 
No  wonder  deem  we  thee  divine  ! 
Some  god  was  lover  first  of  thine. 


122  SEMITONES. 


SEMITONES. 


H  me,  the  subtle  boundary  between 
What  pleases  and  what  pains  !     The  dif 
ference 

Between  the  word  that  thrills  our  every  sense 
With  joy  and  one  which  hurts,  although  it  mean 
No  hurt !     It  is  the  things  that  are  unseen, 
Invisible,  not  things  of  violence, 
For  which  the  mightiest  are  without  defence. 
On  kine  most  fair  to  see  one  may  grow  lean 
With  hunger.     Many  a  snowy  bread  is  doled 
Which  is  far  harder  than  the  hardest  stones. 
'Tis  but  a  narrow  line  divides  the  zones 
Where  suns  are  warm  from  those  where  suns  are 

cold. 

Twixt  harmonies  divine  as  chords  can  hold 
And  torturing  discords,  lie  but  semitones  ! 


IN   THE  DARK.  123 


IN   THE   DARK. 

S  one  who  journeys  on  a  stormy  night 
Through  mountain  passes  which  he  does 

not  know 

Shields  like  his  life  from  savage  gusts  that  blow 
The  swaying  flame  of  his  frail  torch's  light, 
So  each  of  us  through  life's  long  groping  fight 
Clings  fast  to  one  dear  faith,  one  love,  whose  glow 
Makes  darkness  noonday  to  our  trusting  sight, 
And  joys  of  perils  into  which  we  go. 
God  help  us,  when  this  precious  shining  mark 
The  raging  storms  of  deep  distrust  assail 
With  icy,  poisoned  breath  and  deadly  aim, 
Till  we,  with  hearts  that  shrink  and  cower  and  quail 
In  terror  which  no  measure  has  nor  name, 
Stand  trembling,  helpless,  palsied,  in  the  dark. 


1 24  MORDECAI. 


MORDECAI. 


AKE  friends  with  him  !     He  is  of  royal 

line, 
Although   he   sits   in   rags.     Not   all  of 

thine 

Array  of  splendor,  pomp  of  high  estate, 
Can  buy  him  from  his  place  within  the  gate, 
The  King's  Gate  of  thy  happiness,  where  he, 
Yes,  even  he,  the  Jew,  remaineth  free, 
Never  obeisance  making,  never  scorn 
Betraying  of  thy  silver  and  new-born 
Delight.     Make  friends  with  him,  for  unawares 
The  charmed  secret  of  thy  joys  he  bears  ; 
Be  glad,  so  long  as  his  black  sackcloth,  late 
And  early,  thwarts  thy  sun  ;  for  if  in  hate 
And   haste    thou    plottest  for  his    blood,   thy  own 

death-cry, 
Not  his,  comes  from  the  gallows  fifty  cubits  high. 


IN  APRIL. 


IN   APRIL. 

| HAT  did  the  sparrow  do  yesterday? 
Nobody  knew  but  the  sparrows ; 
He  were  too  bold  who  should  try  to  say ; 
They  have  forgotten  it  all  to-day. 
Why  does  it  haunt  my  thoughts  this  way, 
With  a  joy  that  piques  and  harrows, 
As  the  birds  fly  past, 
And  the  chimes  ring  fast, 
And  the  long  spring  shadows  sweet  shadow  cast  ? 

There  's  a  maple-bud  redder  to-day ; 

It  will  almost  flower  to-morrow  ; 
I  could  swear  't  was  only  yesterday 
In  a  sheath  of  snow  and  ice  it  lay, 
With  fierce  winds  blowing  it  every  way ; 
Whose  surety  had  it  to  borrow, 
Till  birds  should  fly  past, 
And  chimes  ring  fast, 
And  the  long  spring  shadows  sweet  shadow  cast  ? 


126  IN  APRIL. 

"  Was  there  ever  a  day  like  to-day, 
So  clear,  so  shining,  so  tender?  " 
The  old  cry  out ;  and  the  children  say, 
With  a  laugh,  aside  :  "  That 's  always  the  way 
With  the  old,  in  spring ;  as  long  as  they  stay, 
They  find  in  it  greater  splendor, 
When  the  birds  fly  past, 
And  the  chimes  ring  fast, 
And  the  long  spring  shadows  sweet  shadow  cast ! '' 

Then  that  may  be  why  my  thoughts  all  day  — 

I  see  I  am  old,  by  the  token  — 
Are  so  haunted  by  sounds,  now  sad,  now  gay, 
Of  the  words  I  hear  the  sparrows  say, 
And  the  maple-bud's  mysterious  way 
By  which  from  its  sheath  it  has  broken, 
While  the  birds  fly  past, 
And  the  chimes  ring  fast, 
And  the  long  spring  shadows  sweet  shadow  cast ! 


TWO  HARVESTS.  12 7 


TWO   HARVESTS. 


LOSSOM  and  fruit  no  man  could  count  or 

hoard  ; 

Seasons  their  laws  forgot,  in  riot  haste 
Lavishing  yield  on  yield  in  madman's  waste  ; 
No  tropic  with  its  centuries'  heat  outpoured 
In  centuries  of  summers,  ever  stored 
Such  harvest. 

Had  the  earth  her  sole  pearl  placed 
In  wine  of  sun  to  melt,  —  one  blissful  taste 
To  drain  and  die,  —  it  had  not  fully  dowered 
This  harvest ! 

She  who  smiling  goes,  a  queen, 
Reaping  with  alabaster  arms  and  hands 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  these  magic  lands, 
Wii,h  idle,  satiate  intervals  between,  — 
Oh,  what  to  her  do  laws  of  harvest  mean  ? 
Joy  passes  by  her,  where  she  laden  stands  ! 


128  TWO   HARVESTS. 


II. 

A  PARCHED  and  arid  land,  all  colorless, 
Than  desert  drearier,  than  rock  more  stern  ; 
Spring  could  not  find,  nor  any  summer  learn 
The  secret  to  redeem  this  wilderness. 
Harsh  winds  sweep  through  with  icy  storm  and  stress  : 
Fierce  lurid  suns  shine  but  to  blight  and  burn  ; 
And  streams  rise,  pallid,  but  to  flee  and  turn : 
Who  soweth  here  waits  miracle  to  bless 
The  harvest ! 

She  who  smiling  goes,  a  queen, 
Seeking  with  hidden  tears  and  tireless  hands 
To  win  a  fruitage  from  these  barren  lands,  — 
She  knoweth  what  the  laws  of  harvest  mean  ! 
Blades  spring,  flowers  bloom,  by  all  but  her  unseen  ; 
Joy's  halo  crowns  her,  where  she  patient  stands  ! 


HABEAS  CORPUS.  129 


HABEAS  CORPUS. 

Y  body,  eh?     Friend  Death,  how  now? 
Why  all  this  tedious  pomp  of  writ? 
Thou  hast  reclaimed  it  sure  and  slow 
For  half  a  century,  bit  by  bit. 


In  faith  thou  knowest  more  to-day 
Than  I  do,  where  it  can  be  found  ! 

This  shrivelled  lump  of  suffering  clay, 
To  which  I  now  am  chained  and  bound, 

Has  not  of  kith  or  kin  a  trace 
To  the  good  body  once  I  bore; 

Look  at  this  shrunken,  ghastly  face  : 
Didst  ever  see  that  face  before  ? 

Ah,  well,  friend  Death,  good  friend  thou  art; 

Thy  only  fault  thy  lagging  gait, 
Mistaken  pity  in  thy  heart 

For  timorous  ones  that  bid  thee  wait. 


130  HABEAS  CORPUS. 

Do  quickly  all  thou  hast  to  do, 

Nor  I  nor  mine  will  hindrance  make  ; 

I  shall  be  free  when  thou  art  through  ; 

I  grudge  thee  nought  that  thou  must  take  ! 

Stay  !  I  have  lied ;  I  grudge  thee  one, 
Yes,  two  I  grudge  thee  at  this  last,  — 

Two  members  which  have  faithful  done 
My  will  and  bidding  in  the  past. 

I  grudge  thee  this  right  hand  of  mine ; 

I  grudge  thee  this  quick-beating  heart ; 
They  never  gave  me  coward  sign, 

Nor  played  me  once  a  traitor's  part. 

I  see  now  why  in  olden  days 

Men  in  barbaric  love  or  hate 
Nailed  enemies'  hands  at  wild  crossways, 

Shrined  leaders'  hearts  in  costly  state  : 

The  symbol,  sign,  and  instrument 

Of  each  soul's  purpose,  passion,  strife, 

Of  fires  in  which  are  poured  and  spent 
Their  all  of  love,  their  all  of  life. 

O  feeble,  mighty  human  hand  ! 

O  fragile,  dauntless  human  heart ! 
The  universe  holds  nothing  planned 

With  such  sublime,  transcendent  art  1 


HABEAS  CORPUS.  131 

Yes,  Death,  I  own  I  grudge  thee  mine 

Poor  little  hand,  so  feeble  now ; 
Its  wrinkled  palm,  its  altered  line, 

Its  veins  so  pallid  and  so  slow  — 

.     .     .     (Unfinished  here.) 

Ah,  well,  friend  Death,  good  friend  thou  art ; 

I  shall  be  free  when  thou  art  through. 
Take  all  there  is  —  take  hand  and  heart ; 

There  must  be  somewhere  work  to  do. 


1.32 


A  LAST  PRAYER. 


A   LAST   PRAYER. 


ATHER,  I  scarcely  dare  to  pray, 

So  clear  I  see,  now  it  is  done, 
That  I  have  wasted  half  my  day, 
And  left  my  work  but  just  begun ; 

So  clear  I  see  that  things  I  thought 

Were  right  or  harmless  were  a  sin ; 
So  clear  I  see  that  I  have  sought, 
Unconscious,  selfish  aims  to  win; 

So  clear  I  see  that  I  have  hurt 

The  souls  I  might  have  helped  to  save ; 
That  I  have  slothful  been,  inert, 

Deaf  to  the  calls  thy  leaders  gave. 

In  outskirts  of  thy  kingdoms  vast, 
Father,  the  humblest  spot  give  me  ; 

Set  me  the  lowliest  task  thou  hast ; 
Let  me  repentant  work  for  thee  ! 


THE  SONG  HE  NEVER    WROTE.       133 


THE   SONG   HE   NEVER   WROTE. 

IS  thoughts  were  song,  his  life  was  singing ; 
Men's    hearts   like   harps   he  held   and 

smote, 
But  in  his  heart  went  ever  ringing, 

Ringing,  the  song  he  never  wrote. 

Hovering,  pausing,  luring,  fleeting, 

A  farther  blue,  a  brighter  mote, 
The  vanished  sound  of  swift  winds  meeting, 

The  opal  swept  beneath  the  boat. 

A  gleam  of  wings  forever  flaming, 

Never  folded  in  nest  or  cote  ; 
Secrets  of  joy,  past  name  or  naming; 

Measures  of  bliss  past  dole  or  rote  ; 

Echoes  of  music,  always  flying, 

Always  echo,  never  the  note  ; 
Pulses  of  life,  past  life,  past  dying,  — 

All  these  in  the  song  he  never  wrote. 


134        THE  SONG  HE  NEVER    WROTE. 

Dead  at  last,  and  the  people,  weeping, 

Turned  from  his  grave  with  wringing  hands, 

"  What  shall  we  do,  now  he  lies  sleeping, 
His  sweet  song  silent  in  our  lands  ? 


"  Just  as  his  voice  grew  clearer,  stronger,"  — 
This  was  the  thought  that  keenest  smote,  — 

"  O    Death  !     couldst    thou    not    spare    him 

longer  ? 
Alas  for  the  songs  he  never  wrote  ! " 


Free  at  last,  and  his  soul  up-soaring, 
Planets  and  skies  beneath  his  feet, 

Wonder  and  rapture  all  out-pouring, 
Eternity  how  simple,  sweet ! 


Sorrow  slain,  and  every  regretting, 
Love  and  Love's  labors  left  the  same, 

Weariness  over,  suns  without  setting, 
Motion  like  thought  on  wings  of  flame 


Higher  the  singer  rose  and  higher, 
Heavens,  in  spaces,  sank  like  bars ; 

Great  joy  within  him  glowed  like  fire, 
He  tossed  his  arms  among  the  stars,  — 


THE  SONG  HE  NEVER  WROTE. 

"  This  is  the  life,  past  life,  past  dying ; 

I  am  I,  and  I  live  the  life  : 
Shame  on  the  thought  of  mortal  crying  ! 

Shame  on  its  petty  toil  and  strife  ! 

"Why  did  I  halt,  and  weakly  tremble?" 
Even  in  heaven  the  memory  smote,  — 

"  Fool  to  be  dumb,  and  to  dissemble  ! 
Alas  for  the  song  1  never  wrote  !  " 


135 


-     L.        * 


ir»T?\rTA    LIBRAE' 


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